The Long Game
by Aalon
Summary: Set in the AU created by the MAGIC story, this new story picks up two weeks after the end of MAGIC. A new crisis arises as Castle and his family are attempting to heal from the recent rampage of Scott Dunn.
1. Chapter 1

**The Long Game: 1**

**A/N:** This story takes place in the **Magic AU**, and begins roughly two weeks after that storyline ends. If you have not read **Magic**, then please search my other stories and do so before reading this one; otherwise this story will not make a lot of sense. Two weeks after Scott Dunn's capture, a new and very different crisis arises as Castle and his family attempt to recover from Dunn's previous attacks.

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Richard Castle's Beach Home in the Hamptons, March 10, 2012**_

It is 6:45 in the morning, and the sun is just starting to creep up off the horizon of the ocean, clearly visible outside from the east-facing front window overlooking the deck. Richard Castle sits on the sofa in the den of his family room, watching the sunrise, his mind miles and miles away. He has brought Martha Rodgers and Alexis Castle here to his Hamptons getaway to rest and recuperate.

To heal.

Their home is ashes and bricks, thanks to Scott Dunn. Castle owes him for that – and so much more. Sure, they could stay in the best hotel in Manhattan, and in fact, they have received a couple of offers from hotel managers looking to take advantage of his sudden increased notoriety. In the end, it was easy to say no to the very generous offers. He wanted to get his family out of the city, away from the press, away from everything.

He just wanted to get his family home.

Alexis sits next to him – sleeping somewhat soundly – half curled up in and against his lap as he watches the morning sun lift off the waters into the air. She fell asleep like this last night in the middle of the second Home Alone movie. He's been trying to keep comedies on the television, for obvious reasons.

She looks so peaceful right now – in stark contrast to the young girl who awakened screaming twice last night – an occurrence that has been repeating itself nightly for the past two weeks since . . .

. . . since Scott Dunn - mad dog that he is - was put away.

The nightmares have been coming every night, despite the visits with the counselor. Dr. Wanda Thompkins has been seeing Alexis three times a week for the past week and a half, since he started bringing her. After two consecutive nights of nightmares, Castle knew that help was needed, and had taken her to the good doctor. Thompkins is a long-time friend from college that he figured he would never need professionally again. Yeah, he'd visited Dr. Thompkins a few times after Meredith left. Finding Meredith in bed with another man had shaken him to his core. Her leaving him and their daughter gave it another good shake. Dr. Thompkins had – in just a few sessions – helped him get on his feet, and focused him on the greatness still in his life.

Alexis.

And now, the doctor has gotten to know the young woman far too well for Castle's taste. He never figured her to ever have to interact with Alexis under circumstances like this.

Bringing Alexis to the Hamptons meant taking her out of school – out of school at the tail end of her senior year. She is transitioning to a form of remote schooling, home schooling so to speak, for the final two months of her senior year. She will still graduate this spring, and still likely be the valedictorian. The school is allowing this for her, allowing her to take the final course studies from home. No, it's not a normal policy, but these aren't normal times. An exception has been made.

It's not often that Richard Castle uses his money or public fame to his own advantage in a truly major way. This, however, is one of those times, and he didn't hesitate in the least to use his position this time. Sure, he's used his fame to get good seats, to get a restaurant reservation when none existed. And for a while there, there was a time where he always seemed to get the girl he wanted. At least for a night or two. Those days are gone.

And this is different. This is about his baby girl.

Yeah, she's a teenager now, a young woman actually, just three months from graduation. But she will always be his baby girl. He's never been more sure of that fact that this morning.

He winces as he remembers last night. He caught her – before they started movies with Martha – in her bathroom. He had walked softly up the stairs, to her bedroom to check and see if she was sleeping. When he didn't find her in her bed, he noticed her bathroom door wide open, and the light on. He continued his slow pace, stopping just outside the door, and saw her. Watched her.

She sat on her vanity stool. Despite its tiny size, she still looked even smaller. So small . . . so fragile. She just stared at the mirror, at her reflection. She stared at the figure that she no longer recognized. She stared at what used to be long, beautiful strands of red hair that always drew second looks from the boys. Tears fell down his cheeks as he watched his daughter pick up her small brush, and mindlessly comb and brush through imaginary strands of hair no longer there.

She hasn't styled what remains of her hair. She hasn't done anything to remove the visual damage done to her, and the mirrored image reflects a stranger, a bad memory. He has encouraged her, and Martha has offered – begged, really – to take her to the salon, where they could find a beautiful hairstyle for the young woman while her hair grows back.

She has refused.

Worse, she hasn't spoken of what transpired during her capture – at least not to Castle or her grandmother. Whether she has shared – or whatever she has shared – with Dr. Thompkins is locked away in that damn doctor-patient privilege between the counselor and the eighteen year old.

She doesn't cry much either – not during the day – and it bothers him. She should cry. She should let it out. But the only time this happens is at night, in the midst of awakening from her nightmares.

In talking with Special Agent Jordan Shaw, he learns that Jenna has a similar story, and is walking down a similar path. Tom Shaw is beside himself, as his young daughter has also been in counseling for two weeks now, and the doctor has told them that she and their daughter spend most of their time together in quiet solitude. The young girl says very little. The doctor says a few things, she asks a few questions, but Jenna is locked in a quiet, far away room.

Castle sees much of the same in Alexis, although not as deep as the Shaw's younger girl.

Alexis has promised him that no sexual damage has been done. She has promised that Dunn never touched her 'in that way', thank God. So it appears that the damage is all psychological, and he's not sure if that isn't better or worse.

Thankfully - most of the time - she seems pretty normal; she seems herself. He wonders if it is an act – if it is a cover, a protection she has created for herself. She will come and smile, sit in his lap, watch television with him, and even laugh at the funny parts.

It seems kind of normal.

Until she is alone – or at least thinks she is alone. Then she becomes someone else. She goes somewhere else. He wishes she would take him with her. She doesn't have to do this alone. He's there, he's right there.

His phone buzzes – thank God he has it on silent ringer, else he awaken his sleeping daughter. Right now she seems fine. She needs a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Badly.

He reads the incoming text.

ESPOSITO: How you doing bro?

He smiles as he thinks of his friend – his friends – still back at the 12th Precinct, who have called and texted continuously over the past couple of weeks since their ordeal. Since Alexis' kidnapping and return.

Since Scott Dunn.

_CASTLE: I'm OK Javi. Thanks_

The response from the detective is fairly immediate.

_ESPOSITO: Ryan says hey_

Of course he would. Castle brings the phone closer, so he can type more easily without disturbing his still-sleeping daughter, still curled in his lap, under his chin.

_CASTLE: Early start for you two_

_ESPOSITO: Yeah – think we have this one wrapped though_

Castle nods his head. The newscasters referred to it as 'The Fairytale Killer', as someone was killing women in the same manner as the Grimm fairy tales they were dressed – in death – to represent. Normally, this would have been the type of case that Richard Castle – just three weeks ago – would have jumped into feet first, smiling wildly, with theories flying. The 12th had actually called him, trying to pull him away from his Hampton's 'camp', as they called it. They thought it would help. But they don't understand.

In truth, Castle had not even given it a moment's thought. No, his place was here, with Alexis. With Martha, who undoubtedly was having recovery issues of her own, as she has found herself with a glass of the brown liquid in her hands a few more times than normal, even for her.

_CASTLE: Good. Tell Ryan hey_

They are good men. The best of men. But he is not ready to jump back into the fray with them. Not until Alexis is better. And who knows when that will be? And certainly not any time soon with Beckett – a woman he thought he knew, a woman he thought he had finally figured out. It turns out he didn't know her at all.

_ESPOSITO: How's little Castle?_

Of course he'd ask about her. He smiles softly, but it quickly fades.

_CASTLE: IDK. I'm worried_

_ESPOSITO: Yeah, I know_

_CASTLE: Different_

_ESPOSITO: Yeah_

He stares out the window at the sun that is now noticeably inches higher off the horizon. He glances down again at Alexis, who licks her lips and readjusts herself, with a soft moan. He starts to prepare himself, in case she awakens. Her awakenings tend to have a violent edge to them, now.

"_God, please let her sleep,"_ he thinks to himself, then continues typing, texting with his friend.

_CASTLE: I'd kill him if I could, Javi_

It's dangerous to think such things, and even more dangerous to type them, to throw them out in public, to throw them into the universe. He's feeling dangerous, though. Has been for two weeks now.

_ESPOSITO: Can't say I blame you_

_CASTLE: I really would_

_ESPOSITO: Well, he's done. Won't be hurting anyone else_

Castle nods slightly, but frowns. They thought this about Scott Dunn before. And they were wrong. Very wrong – and now his daughter lies in his lap, a stark reminder of their mistake. And though it's not really 'their mistake', it sure as hell feels like it right now.

_CASTLE: Yeah_

_ESPOSITO: Yeah. Headed to the courthouse soon_

Castle nods again. That's right, today is arraignment day. The circus will begin, and his family – his daughter, his mother – they will be dragged back into this madness. He sighs, closing his eyes, then begins typing again.

_CASTLE: Yeah_

_ESPOSITO: Arraignment this morning_

_CASTLE: I know that_

_ESPOSITO: Yeah, OK_

He shouldn't be hard on Esposito, or Ryan. They are just trying to be there for him, to be friends. Every day, he has heard from both of them – multiple times during the day. Every day.

He's even gotten a few texts from her.

_CASTLE: OK Javi. Hi to everyone_

_ESPOSITO: Stay tight, Castle_

Castle smiles, and nods his head one last time, thinking of his friends back in the city. As if on cue, Alexis bolts up, a quick scream escaping her lips before a second one gets caught in her throat, and she jolts upward. Her head jars into her father's chin, causing him to bite his tongue.

The immediate and blinding pain, along with the immediate taste of metal now in his mouth, mixes with his daughter's loud sobs, concocting a dangerous mixture in the writer's mind.

He tries to soothe her, swallowing his own blood, fighting back the harsh stinging in his mouth, trying to tell her it will be all right. He is woefully unsuccessful.

"I'm right here, pumpkin," he tells her, rocking her back and forth, holding her as tightly as he can without hurting her. "Daddy's here."

"Huh! Huh! Huh!," she sobs, and grunts, not able to put any words together, as her tears and a few droplets of his own blood now stain his shirt.

"It will be okay, pumpkin," he tells her, his voice cracking slightly. He wills himself to be strong for his daughter, steeling his emotions, allowing his anger to surface once again, drowning the sadness and the ache in his heart for the young woman.

"I'm here," he whispers.

"_I really could kill him,"_ he thinks to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Long Game: 2**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**New York City, 8 a.m., March 10, 2012**_

The armored prisoner wagon rumbles slowly, carefully, through the city along the already crowded city streets, with its very important cargo.

Scott Dunn sits on the side bench, against the left wall of the van. His feet are chained to the floor, and his hands are chained in shackles, together. He hums a tune aloud, keeping his mind focused. His arraignment at the courthouse is roughly an hour away. His calm demeanor lends a surreal gift to the already tense atmosphere in the van.

Across from him sit two heavily armed federal agents who have been assigned transport duty to accompany the serial killer to the arraignment proceedings, and then back to his holding cell. Tensions are running high at the Agency's local office, due to the more personal nature of his crimes against one of their own. And each agent there – with a family himself or herself – empathizes with Special Agent Jordan Shaw in a very personal way. It's the worst-case scenario each of them fear, but rarely voice.

Someone attacking their family, their friends. Their children.

And in such a vicious manner.

Dunn smirks at the two Feds who sit with him, drawing the ire of the large Hispanic agent to the left, who has been eyeing him warily the entire trip.

"Something funny, creep?" the agent asks.

Shaking his head, Dunn responds, chuckling. "Something like that."

Yeah, he'll play with the agent for a while. He likes mental games. He's good at it. This will help pass the time nicely.

"I don't see anything funny here. Why don't you enlighten us," the agent continues, flexing his arms and cracking his knuckles.

Dunn, nonplussed and unaffected, continues smirking.

"I find these proceedings to be . . . let's just say that they are a waste of all of our time."

"If it were up to me, there would be a different option for you, creep," the agent mutters.

"Well, too bad it's not up to you," Dunn responds, looking every bit the menace he has proven himself to be. "I won't be incarcerated for long, anyway," he adds with a smile. "I never am."

The large, Hispanic agent smiles to himself. Scott Dunn finds that strange. The agent steals a quick look at his watch as the van lurches to an unexpected stop. Suddenly his cell phone beeps. He glances at the text message and smirks himself.

"Showtime," he says.

The second, smaller agent scrambles quickly to the back doors of the van, opening them and jumping out into the street below.

"Hurry up," the smaller agent yells. "We're on the clock now."

"You won't be needing these," the Hispanic agent says affably, unlocking the feet cuffs away from the prisoner.

Scott Dunn smiles. This is happening sooner than he expected. As he has just said – he never stays incarcerated for very long. Good planning on his part always ensures a good getaway from the authorities. Or a good escape, if it comes to that.

"I wasn't expecting this so quickly," he says, holding out his arms, showing his shackled hands to the agent.

"Oh, _those_ you will need," says the large Hispanic, as he lands a hard right cross to the forehead of the killer, dazing him.

Suddenly, Dunn finds himself being dragged out of the transport van – roughly. He utters a curse as his knees scrape along the street's rough concrete, as he stumbles to the curb. The second agent quickly shuts the two doors, bangs on the side of the van and the transport vehicle suddenly accelerates off the curb and into traffic. A few seconds later it has turned a corner and it out of sight.

Both agents turn and forcefully pick up Dunn by the arms, and drag him toward the doors of the building in front of them. They stop, intentionally, to give the serial killer a look.

"You might recognize this place," the previously silent and smaller agent smiles.

Dunn, still dazed from the hammerhead shot applied by the larger agent, lifts his head and sees the sign atop the storefront of the building.

"Oh Shit!" he mutters, and now for the first time, a bit of fear grips him as the two agents drag him down the two steps, unlock the door and haul Scott Dunn into The Old Haunt.

He is manhandled as the two agents drag him through the doors of the establishment and through the aisles of the bar itself. Being just after 8 o'clock in the morning, the bar itself is closed. Fortunately, they have been provided a key, so their entry into the building was quick and painless.

Well, painless for them. Their prisoner has picked up a couple more bruises, the poor thing.

They take him to the back of the bar, and down the flight of stairs. The silent agent flips a lever, opening a secret passageway into the sewer tunnels below. For his part, Dunn is now starting to come back around, out of his daze, demanding answers.

"What the fuck is going on here! I demand –"

Another hard slap to the back of the head silences him, as the larger agent throws him roughly against the stone wall of the tunnels.

"I'm sorry. I guess I don't have to tell you that you aren't in a position to demand anything . . . creep."

"I think you just did, Charlie," the second agent laughs.

"Well, yeah, I suppose I did," agrees his partner with a menacing laugh of his own. Clearly he is enjoying this – and he's good at it, too.

"Not like it's going to help him anyway."

They drag him ever further into the bowels of the underground caverns beneath the city. The old sewer tunnels branch out into multiple directions, but the agents seem to know exactly where they are going, through the myriad of twists and turns. Each step becomes another, and soon the seconds turn to minutes. Dunn is – once again – getting his wits – and confidence about him again. It's obvious to him that these two are not a part of any organization trying to spring him as part of a rescue operation, so they are here for something else. And if they wanted him dead, well – he'd be dead by now.

"I believe you gentlemen have made some type of mistake," he tries bravely, his voice stronger now, as they continue to drag him from one turn and straight shot to another. It's dark down here, and it smells horrible. He can hear things rustling, running at their feet. He steels his mind away from such thoughts. The mental side of this – he is good at this.

"Nope, no mistake, creep," the smaller agent offers.

"Although I do believe you are going to understand the nature of – and the depths of your mistake very shortly," the larger agent adds.

"I do believe you're right, Charlie."

Another fifty feet, and they make one final turn. The larger agent kicks out the gated enclosure into the east river a few feet below. They toss Dunn roughly below and he lands awkwardly, spraining his ankle.

"Dammit, what's this about?" he screams angrily, now for the first time fully losing his legendary control.

"Thanks guys, I will take it from here," says a new, deeper voice below them.

Dunn looks up into the face of the new voice, seeing a slightly older man than his two predecessors. He has salt and pepper hair, cropped above the ears, combed back loosely.

He picks up Dunn roughly, and quickly head butts him backwards. He continues the sudden assault, placing a quick kick into the killer's groin, drawing a scream. Dunn, now highly nauseous, vomits in pain as he attempts to scramble down toward the water – and possible freedom.

A blunt force hammers the back of his head, sending his face into the hard, unforgiving surface, and sending his senses back into the fog. He vaguely recognizes that his feet are being tied – again. Suddenly, he is being dragged across the sand and rocks, jagged edges cutting into his back. He tries a scream, but nothing comes out. His captor is silent, which only further lends to the terrifying sequences he now faces.

Without warning, he finds himself lifted into the air, then just as quickly dropped unceremoniously into a small waiting motorboat.

His captor climbs into the craft and guns it to life, taking them out into the morning waters. They travel across the water for a few minutes before he turns to the now clearly frightened serial killer - who for the first time - is experiencing the brand of entertainment that he is accustomed to delivering to others. This . . . this abduction is being orchestrated in broad daylight. He finds himself coming in and out of consciousness. Without warning, he is being roughly – but very carefully – slapped back and forth across his face.

"Uh-uh," his captor tells him. "Stay with me, Dunn. Don't leave me – not just yet."

The emotionless edge - the tone of the man's words truly frighten Scott Dunn, a feeling he has never felt until this moment. There is something about this man.

Suddenly, the craft stops, and now they are bobbing atop the murky river waters.

"So . . . I wish to have words with you," his captor tells him.

"At least tell me who you are," Dunn says, finding a bit of bravery in what he knows may turn out to be his final minutes. No one kidnaps you and drags you out into the middle of a watery grave just for 'words' – of this much he is certain.

"Certainly," his captor almost smiles – his menace now barely contained. "My name is Jackson Hunt."

_**The Hamptons, 10 a.m., March 10, 2012**_

Richard and Alexis Castle climb the stairs leading up to their family beach home. They have just returned from a slow and easy walk along the surf's edge. He had made them a quick breakfast once she had finally calmed down from the nightmare that had awakened her this morning. Deciding that a walk would be good to clear her head – and his head also – they had thrown on windbreakers and tennis shoes and taken down to the water's edge.

As he enters the home, Martha Rodgers waits impatiently, and the look on her face tells him that the morning's excitement is far from over.

"What's wrong, mother?" he asks.

"_As if there's not enough going on already,"_ he thinks to himself.

"Richard . . ."

The fear in her eyes startles him – and he quickly looks around to see if there is an intruder in the house. Seeing his actions spurs her back to the present, and she points at the television.

"The television, Richard," she says. He glances over to the large big-screen television screen as he hears his phone chirping from the kitchen bar counter, where he left it before taking the walk along the shoreline with Alexis.

He picks up the phone and, seeing the call to be incoming from the 12th Precinct, he clicks ANSWER, and walks back to toward the large television, now listening with rapt interest.

"Castle!" the voice of Kate Beckett. "I've been calling you all morning."

"What is it, Beckett?" he responds, somewhat annoyed. He really doesn't have much to say to the detective right now. And she knows this. She's not stupid. Why is she calling?

"Castle . . . what have you done?"

"_What the hell are you talking about?"_ he thinks to himself, now not listening to her anymore, but fully focused on the news story being broadcast on the television. The reporter is talking. She's talking about Scott Dunn and . . .

"_Dear God, she's standing in front of the Old Haunt!"_ he realizes.

"John, here is what we know for certain," the reporter continues, speaking to the anchor back at the station.

"At 8:08 this morning, surveillance cameras picked up the federal transport van stopping here – in front of the Old Haunt bar – an establishment known to be owned by one Richard Castle. Viewers may recall that the famous author's daughter and mother were both kidnapped by the serial killer, Scott Dunn during his latest rampage just two over two weeks ago. Two men, impersonating federal agents, are seen here – as you can see – exiting the vehicle, along with Scott Dunn – who appears now to be their prisoner. They then take him – as you can see – into the Old Haunt bar. And that's it. Police have found no evidence of Dunn, or his captors – inside the establishment. But the question on everyone's mind right now is – where is Scott Dunn, and what role has Richard Castle played in his abduction?"

Martha Rodgers is now sitting on the sofa, as Alexis Castle sits beside her – her eyes wide – going from the television to her father, who stands off away from both women, with a strange look on his face.

The hard rapping on the front door tears him from his reverie, and he gives what he hopes is a reassuring glance to his daughter and mother. They've both been through enough already. Now this?

He opens the door, and his countenance falls, as he stares into the face of a man who is normally a friend – but clearly does not have 'friend' painted across his features this morning.

"Rick . . ."

"What can I do for you, Sherriff Anders," Castle asks, already knowing the answer.

"Rich, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come down to the station – there are people who have a lot of questions for you."


	3. Chapter 3

**The Long Game: 3**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**The Hamptons, 10:30 a.m., March 10, 2012**_

Richard Castle follows Sheriff Josh Anders to his unmarked cruiser. He nods in understanding, thankful to his old friend for not bringing the more public cruiser with the flashers. Anders returns the nod, as his deputy opens the back door to the vehicle.

"Mr. Castle," the deputy says in greeting.

Castle simply nods his head, and then ducks as he bends down to slide into the back seat. He and Anders have been friends for the past few years, since Castle first bought the beach house. In his role as the sheriff, Anders has a much wider jurisdiction – across the entire county – than the local city police, and is far more experienced in the area, gaining the respect of the locals long ago. When the call came from the NYPD to bring one Richard Castle in for questioning, John Brady – the local Chief of Police – opted to use a friendly – and certainly more experienced - face to bring in the celebrated author.

Castle is quiet during the trip to the police station, or the sheriff's office – he isn't sure where he is being taken. He's assuming the local police department, since this is at the request of the NYPD. Sheriff Anders and his deputy don't talk, allowing Castle to stay inside his own thoughts. Ten minutes later, Castle finds himself walking into the local police station.

He is greeted by Chief Brady, and is immediately taken with the young man's youth. He idly wonders if the chief is as inexperienced as he looks.

"_Probably why they sent Josh,"_ he thinks to himself, smiling.

"Thanks Sheriff," the chief says, throwing a wave towards Anders. Then turning his attention back to his captive author, he continues. "Find something amusing, Mr. Castle?" the chief begins as he ushers him into an interrogation room.

"_Okay, perhaps not so inexperienced. We'll see."_

"I have nothing to hide, and nothing to be concerned about," Castle states amiably. "That is, nothing other than the fact that the madman who kidnapped my daughter and mother only two weeks ago, seems to have orchestrated an escape from the federal police for the second time in two years. So, correction – _that_ I _do_ find concerning."

Taking a 'do not screw with me' attitude works, as the younger chief is slightly taken aback with the aggressive nature of the man he is supposed to be questioning. The chief, though, recovers and continues, undeterred. Sheriff Anders sits at the other end of the table, smiling to himself. Yeah, he knows Richard Castle pretty well, and the author's posture tells him something important: he is innocent. He's seen Castle when he's wearing his 'I am guilty' demeanor, and this isn't it.

No, it's not the normal beach shenanigans for which the author is now considered legendary. But Anders is really good at reading people, and what he is reading now is a pissed off individual who is concerned for his family. He will let the chief go through his 'twenty questions', though.

"Video surveillance caught the perps dragging Mr. Dunn into the bar," Mr. Castle. "_Your_ bar."

Castle sits impassively, not saying a word. The chief continues.

"There was no forced entry. No jimmying of the lock. They used a key," the chief says. "Now how do you suppose they got a key, Mr. Castle?" he asks. "To _your _bar."

Castle remains quiet, simply staring at the younger police chief.

"And how, Mr. Castle, do you explain how they knew about the tunnels underneath," he continues. "Underneath_ your_ bar."

Castle's continued silence begins to unnerve the chief, and just as he is about to try a different tactic, Sheriff Anders steps in from the other side of the table.

"I am guessing from your silence that you are choosing the 'I am not saying anything without my lawyer present' stance, Rick?"

"Not at all Josh," Castle finally says, smiling briefly at his friend, and then returning his gaze – smile intact – to Chief Brady.

"You ask very good questions, Chief, I will give you that," Castle tells him. "For the past – oh, four or so years – I've spent a good deal of time in interrogation rooms with the NYPD – on your side of the table, of course, asking similar questions. And the questions you are asking right now are exactly the same exact questions I am asking myself as well."

"Well, Mr. Cast-"

"And if you will allow me to continue," Castle interrupts, "it is _my_ daughter that was kidnapped, it was _my_ mother who was kidnapped, it was the daughter of _my_ friend who was kidnapped, it was the doctor treating _my _. . . my . . . _my partner_ who was kidnapped. And now the man who has done all of these things is free. Now, if I am a person of interest in this, then that is the dumbest leap I've seen a police department make, because if there is one person on this planet who never, never – and I do mean _never_ – wants to see Scott Dunn again, well that person is me."

With that, Castle stands, pushing himself back from the table.

"So, I know this has been a brief chat, but if you are going to arrest me, then arrest me. If you need to hold me for the NYPD, then just throw me in your holding cell until they get here," he tells the now increasingly flustered chief of police. He doesn't like showing up the younger man, but honestly, his patience is at its end right about now. For all he knows, Scott Dunn is free and planning his next move against those he believes that Detective Kate Beckett considers dear. He needs to get away from this man, clear his head . . .

"But I promise you," he concludes, "I have absolutely nothing to add, nothing that will help you solve this riddle – and believe me, that disappoints _me_ far more than it does you." With that, he walks toward the door to leave the interrogation room.

"Where do you think you're going?" an incredulous police chief asks his 'guest', while Sheriff Anders also stands, a bit perplexed at where his friend thinks he is going.

"To my holding cell," Castle half smiles. "I know there are other people who want to ask questions as well.

Three and a half hours later, he is walking out of the police station, after completing a half hour battery of questions from New York's finest detectives. Well, not really – because no one from the 12th made the trip from the city to question him. He doesn't know if he is disappointed or not with that little fact.

He brushes by the New Yorkers on his way out. It took the detectives roughly three hours to make the trek from the city, and so a half hour of discussion has left them – well, a little peeved.

"Need a ride, Rick?" the Sheriff asks him.

"You're still here?" asks Castle, clearly surprised and appreciative of his friend.

"Well, this is the most exciting thing to happen here for a few months, y'know," Anders chuckles, and Castle releases some pent up emotions with a small laugh himself.

"Thanks, I will take you up on that, old friend," he tells him, as the two men walk towards the sheriff's cruiser.

_**Richard Castle's Home in the Hamptons, 3:00 p.m., March 10, 2012**_

Richard Castle walks up the stairs to his beach home toward the front door, and a horrible sense of déjà vu assaults the writer. The last time he opened the door to his home this morning – with his daughter in tow – he was greeted by his mother wearing an odd look, the television sporting a not-so-funny report, and the sheriff driving up the long driveway to pick him up.

He pauses for a moment, glancing back at the retreating cruiser of the sheriff who has just returned him to his home, and shrugs away the thought.

Opening the door, he walks in, this time to be greeted by a highly relieved Martha Rodgers and her granddaughter, both of whom have been sitting on the sofa, keeping track of the 'story of the year' on the local television stations. The women rise from the sofa in greeting, both scurrying towards Castle and enveloping him in a long embrace.

"I'm good, I'm good," he tells them, and one glance at his daughter – just one glance is all it takes – and the righteous anger he has kept quelled all afternoon bubbles to the surface. The man – the mad dog – who kidnapped his baby girl is free again, and the look in her eyes tells it all for him. She's not afraid, she's not nervous.

She is absolutely beside herself in terror.

She wonders if he is coming for her again. She wonders when – not if – but _when_ it will start all over again. He pulls her back into his grasp, both of them, and tries to calm both of their fears.

"I'm calling in help," he tells them. "We won't be alone, out here like sitting ducks," he promises when the doorbell rings.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," he mutters aloud, reluctantly breaking their embrace as he heads to the front door.

He opens the door. It's been a long morning and longer afternoon already. His patience long gone, he is ready to snap at whoever is on the other side. He stops.

He does not know this man.

The silver-haired man stands in the doorway, just staring at Castle – taking him in. If he didn't know better, Castle would swear the man was viewing him as a long-lost friend from long, long ago.

"Who is it, Richard?" Martha Rodgers asks him from roughly six or seven steps behind the door where she still holds on to his daughter.

Before he can answer, the man outside his door cocks his head ever so slightly to the right, so he can see the face behind the voice calling Castle. For him, it is a very familiar voice – one he has not heard directly in a long, long, long time.

She catches his face a split second after he moves to get a look at her. In an almost comical routine, Richard Castle's head seems to swivel back and forth between his mother and the stranger at the door. Scratch that, the stranger who is now moving past him towards his mother.

"Excuse me, Richard," he smiles, without a glance at Castle, his eyes focused on the woman not five paces in front of him. It's clear that this is a man his mother knows.

She almost falters, but instead, plants herself firmly into the floor, a rugged and immovable oak tree. She releases her granddaughter as the man approaches.

Jackson Hunt slowly raises his arms in greeting. Martha hesitates for a few seconds. There is something in her eyes that Castle has never seen there before. He cannot place this 'look' at all. Hell, this has been one crappy day, and now this . . . this - whatever this is . . .

A second later, she slowly takes one step toward Jackson, lifting her arms into his. They hold this position, an intimate embrace that Castle has seen his mother share with absolutely no one – ever – not even himself. Not this kind of intimacy.

"Excuse me?" he finally interrupts. Enough of this. Who is this guy?

"Who are you?" Castle asks.

Hunt ignores him, holding on to the red-haired woman he left so many decades ago.

"Martha."

He says her name, and nothing else. His mother's eyes dance with a life of their own, and he can tell that she is getting ready to return the greeting. She knows his real name.

He shakes his head subtly, but she catches it, she sees the instruction in his eyes, and understands immediately. He will introduce himself.

"Mother?" Castle asks.

"Grams?" Alexis manages.

The man releases her – only slightly – from their embrace, enough so that he can turn and face Castle.

"I know this is awkward," he begins with a slight smile. It's a bit of a cold smile, one that disarms Castle immediately. "There is not a good way to do this," he continues.

"Honestly, this wasn't supposed to happen for . . . well, ever. But events of late have transpired that are out of my control, that have forced me to –"

"Who _are_ you? Castle asks again, this time with a bit more force. "And what are you doing in my house?"

The silver-haired guest glances again at Martha, who only nods with a smile.

"I am your father, Richard."


	4. Chapter 4

**The Long Game: 4**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Richard Castle's Home in the Hamptons, 3:10 p.m., March 10, 2012**_

Richard Castle stands in stunned silence, with his eyes closed. He is in the process of mentally counting to ten, and the count currently stands at six.

"_I will open my eyes and all of this – this entire day – the television newscast, the trip to the police station, this imposter who is playing a very unfunny prank – all of this will be gone."_

Ten.

He opens his eyes to the smiling – no, the smirking face of the stranger at the door, now in his home. He stands, holding his mother, who is smiling in a way that Richard Castle has never seen her smile. And his baby girl is staring back at her confused dad with the most befuddled look. At any other time, that look by itself would be priceless.

This afternoon? It's just par for the course.

He glances at his mother, who simply nods her head in agreement with a slightly sheepish grin. The stranger is – indeed, at least according to her – his father.

"My name is Jackson Hunt, Richard. And I _am_ your father."

Castle gives the man one final glance, then makes up his mind. He walks past both his smiling mother and his . . . his . . . his father, toward the kitchen, where he stops at the bar area just adjacent. He scoops up a small tumbler glass that was used for breakfast, and empties the remaining contents of orange juice - on the floor - as he walks to the cabinet containing his scotch. He grabs a bottle, and pours himself a full tumbler, downing a third of the drink in one swoop.

"_Screw it, its afternoon already and I've had a long day,"_ he thinks to himself, feeling the nice burn in the back of his throat.

He looks back at the couple still standing near the door, trying to put together his thoughts, and words.

"Something tells me that the timing of this visit is not a coincidence with what's happening right now," he finally says.

"Some_thing_? You mean some_one_, don't you?" Hunt tells him with a slightly confused look. "As in _me_. As in I _just told you_ that events transpired to bring me here."

Hunt looks at Martha questioningly.

"He's very intelligent, I know, but he's not the brightest bulb in the package, is he," Hunt tells her. It's not a question.

Martha tries hard – but unsuccessfully – to stifle a giggle, looking back at her son. Even Alexis finds herself giggling.

"Excuse me?" Castle asks, somewhat incredulously himself.

"Okay, Okay, I know that you have a lot of questions, and answers are warranted," Hunt says.

"You're damn right they are warranted," Castle huffs, trying to regain his footing in this conversation.

"Let me start by telling you why I am here," he says. "That's really the easiest part of this entire story, so let me begin there."

Castle nods in agreement, standing firm, holding his tumbler.

"Why don't we take this over to the sofa, Richard," his mother tells him, but she's actually speaking to everyone now. Something tells her that what's coming next will be better . . . or at least easier received sitting down.

The four of them walk slowly to the sofa, with Castle plopping down in the loveseat. Alexis joins him, while Martha and Jackson Hunt sit on the sofa perpendicular to the loveseat, allowing everyone clear eyesight to one another.

"So, why are you here?" Castle asks. Oh, there are so many questions sprinting through his mind, the first of which revolves around a certain paternity that was so casually claimed just a minute or so ago. But yeah, he will start with why in the hell the man is here in his home, for now.

"Like I said, events transpired," Hunt tells him, still with his odd little smile. Or smirk. Or whatever it is, Castle wants to just slap it right off his face.

"A few weeks ago, a certain gentleman made the mistake of taking my granddaughter prisoner," he begins, looking at Alexis softly. Alexis lowers her head, and receives an immediate, but gentle reprimand from Hunt.

"Raise your eyes, Alexis," he tells her. "Look at me. I can promise you, that man will never harm you again."

He is being completely honest with the young woman. Up until this point, Jackson Hunt was not completely 100 percent certain what he was going to do with Scott Dunn, who currently is safely and securely tied up at the moment. However, upon seeing his granddaughter, and recognizing the blank stare she continually falls back to, after seeing her botched haircut partially obscuring the beauty of the young woman he has kept tabs on from afar – well needless to say, Scott Dunn's death warrant has just –unbeknownst to him – been signed, sealed and delivered.

"What do you mean, he will never harm her again?" Castle asks, almost afraid of the direction this conversation is going. "Were you the one who took Dunn?"

"Yes."

For a few seconds, Richard Castle is in a new place – and that is, completely at a loss for words. All of this – this entire day – is swimming way too quickly past him. He needs to slow this down.

"Wha . . . Why?" he asks.

"Because he took my granddaughter," Hunt replies, matter-of-factly, as if it is the most obvious answer in the world. "And then he took my . . . my . . ."

He gazes at Martha, and she looks down bashfully. His mother is bashful? He downs another third of the tumbler and places it on the coffee table in front of him.

"And then he took your mother," Hunt finally says, deciding on the proper wording he wishes to use for the moment.

"So . . ." Castle hesitates, desperately trying to put the right words to convey his thoughts. "So – you have kept yourself totally invisible to mother, to me, to Alexis – for . . ."

He begins counting on his fingers, for crying out loud . . .

". . . for over four decades. Decades! And after all of the personal triumphs and tragedies we have faced, what happened a few weeks ago was what it took to bring you out of hiding?"

Castle is agitated, and Hunt doesn't blame him. He has kept tabs on his son for long enough to know how he would react. He's hurt. He's angry. He's confused. He has every right to each of those emotions. Hunt does not begrudge him this.

"Richard . . . what I do does not allow me to have the type of normal family, picket fence life that others get," Hunt tells him.

"Okay, then what is it that you do?" Castle asks him.

"Don't ask!" comes the simultaneous reply from both his mother and his father.

"Now hold on, Mother," Castle tells them both, although he addresses it to Martha. "You can't clam up – I need to know –"

"Don't ask," Hunt repeats.

"I need to know," Castle insists.

"He really _isn't_ a very bright bulb at all, is he," Hunts declares, shaking his head in frustration at Martha.

"Now wait a second –" Castle gets out, before he is interrupted again.

"Look, Richard. I work for a certain . . . element of this country that allows me some . . . latitude in making some important . . . decisions. Life and death decisions," he continues. "In this capacity, I am privy to information that is kept from virtually everyone – from the hot dog salesman on the street to the President of the United States."

Castle's eyes widen slightly, which tells Hunt he is finally getting through to the writer. Castle grabs the tumbler off the coffee table and chugs the remaining third of the liquid.

"Dad!" Alexis warns, but Castle just pats her hand.

"When Mr. Dunn made the soon-to-be fatal error of taking Alexis, here, I began making preparations to get her back . . . and to get him back, if you will," he tells them. The fact that he speaks these words with no emotion, no remorse, is clearly a bit frightening to all of them – including Martha, and she already knows what the man does. What he is capable of doing.

"Once she was freed, and Martha was freed, well, that meant I only had to work one side of the equation." His comparison to their kidnapping equaling a death sentence is not lost on Castle.

"So, I waited until the proper time when I could strike, and rescue Mr. Dunn from the public justice system."

"So those men in the van, they work for you?" Castle asks.

"They are acquaintances of mine who will never be found."

"What? You killed-"

"No, no, Richard," he tells him. "Facial masks. Their true features can't be discovered or tracked."

Castle's eyebrows rise, as his eyes light up.

"Okay, that's actually pretty cool," Castle says, smiling.

"Dad!" he receives from his daughter, yet again. And yet again he shushes her with a pat on the hand, this time drawing a glare from the red-head.

"So you capture . . . er . . . so you _rescue _Dunn from the van, so that you can . . ."

Castle lets the words fall off, knowing Dunn's eventual destination that has been made crystal clear by Hunt. And he is in no frame of mind to argue. Which disturbs him a bit.

"But why would you use the Old Haunt as a part of your getaway?" Castle asks, and Hunt smiles. Finally, he is asking the right question. The question that has brought him out of hiding. Truth is, if this were only about Dunn, then he would have captured Dunn, taken care of him, and no one would have been the wiser. The snatch would have occurred far away from anything that could implicate his son.

Yeah, he's finally asked the right question.

"Because Dunn is not the problem, son," Hunt tells him. Both men notice his use of the word 'son'. "Dunn is part of the solution to the problem, but he is not the problem itself."

"What? Wait a –"

"Hear me out," Hunt explains. "There is so much more to this than you know. If this were only about Dunn, I would have taken him out, and that would have been it. No one would ever find him, and he would become a trivia question on game shows and in board games. And I certainly would not have implicated you."

"Okay, so why did you –"

"Because I'm playing the long game, son. There is man, a very powerful man, who has his sights set on your lady detective friend in the city. And when I say he has his sights set on her, I mean crosshair sights, not goo-goo eye looks."

Now he has Castle's full attention. He doesn't know the identity of the man, but it is clear that the people responsible for her mother's murder, the people responsible for Roy Montgomery's murder, they are at it again."

"Now wait a second," Castle argues. "They are supposed to stay away from her. I cut a deal for –"

"You what!?" Alexis shouts, startling Castle as he jumps a bit.

"Hold on now, pumpkin, let me –"

"You what!" she shouts again.

"Hey! HEY!" Jackson Hunts shouts above both of them, getting their attention. "You two can work out your trust issues later – this is far more important right now," he tells them. Alexis falls back into the loveseat, folding her arms and sulking.

To be honest, Castle is glad to see a little spunk from his girl. That spunk has been missing for the past weeks.

"Again – powerful man – sights on Beckett – are you with me so far?" Hunt asks, and Castle nods his head repeatedly.

"I know the deal you made with Mr. Smith. Don't look at me like that. Listen, Richard. There are a lot of things that I know. I make it my business to know. I stay alive by knowing."

He pauses, waiting for the full effect of his words to hit home.

"I keep those I love alive by knowing."

Castle slowly nods his head, glancing at his mother who simply – again sheepishly – nods her head.

"You knew about this, Mother?"

"What Martha does or does not know is immaterial, Richard. Back on point," he tells his audience. "This powerful man is someone I know. He does not know me. He knows of me, by reputation, by stories he has heard. We have met, but he does not realize we have met."

He pauses again, allowing the understanding to settle in, then continues.

"It has come to my attention that he is making plans to move on the detective once again. I do not know why, nor do I care. Nor do I really care what happens to the detective," he says, which draws another eyebrow raise from Castle.

"What I _do_ care about is the fact that he is strongly considering widening his net to include _you_, Richard," which draws a gasp from both mother and daughter. The writer is surprisingly calm, causing Hunt to try and fail at suppressing a bit of a proud grin.

"He considers you – and potentially her other detective partners – as too big a risk to leave unmanaged. So he is considering adding you to the list. And trust me, once people of his position start quote- _considering things_ - unquote, well, those things are all but done at that point."

He stops talking as he watches his son stand, and walk back to the bar area, this time grabbing a second glass along with his own. He pours bourbon in both glasses, and returns to the living room, handing one glass to Hunt.

"Mixing drinks, I see," Hunt chuckles.

"Been that kind of day," Castle replies.

Hunt nods his head, and takes a swig from the glass, smiling at the flavor as he leans his head back, allowing the liquid to flow down this throat. He clears his throat, and begins again.

"So – powerful man – sights on Beckett – adding you to the list – we clear so far?"

Castle nods his head, sipping his drink before putting it back on the coffee table. Alexis half reaches for the drink, this time earning a slap, not a pat, on the hand from her father. Hunt chuckles – his laugh is a bit creepy, Castle decides.

"So, you and your family could become . . . collateral damage in his efforts to get to Beckett, or . . . you could be actual targets yourself."

"This sucks," Alexis mumbles to herself.

"That it does, Alexis," Hunt agrees. "Which is why I am here, and why I left bread crumbs leading to your door, son," he continues. "Everything I have done so far is to create a red herring; to make them think twice about including you in their crosshairs."

"What do you mean?" Castle asks, not completely following the train of thought.

"One of two things is going to happen, Richard," Hunts says, sipping down another swallow of his drink. "Option one: A notorious, ruthless and celebrity serial killer disappears after attacking your family, never to be found again. The police are convinced you masterminded the entire operation, out of revenge for your family. The court of public opinion will be on your side. The police will always suspect it was you. But there will never be a body, and therefore, never any proof. More, since you never were a part of it, there will be nothing that traces back to you except for the location of the snatch. And the man after Beckett will begin to look at you with . . . let's say, a new set of eyes. I know this man, and I know what he respects, and what he disregards. A man ruthless enough to take out a serial killer, but ensure that said killer in question is never found? Well, that is a man your enemy respects – and will back away from."

He takes another swallow, before continuing.

"Option two: A notorious, ruthless and celebrity serial killer disappears after attacking your family. Certain parts of him are delivered to your enemy. Evidence turns up that exonerates you of any involvement in the operation. Your enemy never connects you with the operation. But he knows _my_ reputation. And when he gets _my_ package – with _my_ message – he understands that you and your family are off-limits. Now this approach is a bit more risky, because it begs the question why I even give a shit about you and your family. Regardless, even if he or anyone else begins to question what our connection is – the message is still received: stay away from Richard Castle."

Castle nods in understanding. Yeah, this was far more than he expected to hear. And he can see the wisdom – actually the savage brilliance in the plan, in the options laid out. Had he been of a different mind, he would be outlining concepts for a new book with this knowledge. However, right now, self-preservation is the status quo.

And then there's Beckett.

"So, you are going after them?"

"Him," Hunt corrects.

"But you know who he is," Castle confirms one more time.

"Of course I do," is the response.

"How –"

"Again, Richard. There are things I know – things I make it my business to now."

"Things you stay alive by knowing," Castle finishes for him, and Hunt merely nods his head.

"So – you are sending some type of message to him. Then you go after him?"

"No," Hunt responds, and he response surprises both Castle and Martha.

"Why not?" Martha asks, beating Castle to the punch.

"Why should I? It's not my jurisdiction," he tells them, as if that alone is answer enough. Clearly, for the people in this room, it is not. No, Castle doesn't like Kate Beckett much right now.

But he still loves her.

He realizes exactly how screwed up that sounds as the thoughts float through his brain. He doesn't want her dead. He just doesn't want her. There is a difference.

"Because it's the right thing to do," Alexis says, inserting herself into the conversation. Castle allows it. This is as much about her as anyone – perhaps even more so, given her recent activities.

"The right thing to do is not always the correct thing to do," Hunt tells her. Later, Richard Castle will see the validity in those words. But that is later. Right now, those words carry little logic with the writer.

"What about Beckett?" he asks. "And her team?"

"What about her?" asks Jackson Hunt. Seeing the look on his son's face, Hunt hurriedly tries to explain. "Richard, understand – I am a part of a group that stays out of domestic affairs."

He knows by telling his son this much, his son will figure out which three-letter agency employs his father. That's okay – his son deserves to know that much, at least. And the fact that his son withheld information regarding the infamous 'Mr. Smith' from the woman he supposedly loves tells Hunt that his son won't part with this new knowledge anyway.

"I intervened this time," he continues, "At great personal risk – because it was you, it was Alexis. It was Martha. I knew somehow Dunn would be loose again - and soon. I could not take the chance that he would not come after you again. So I acted. And I saw an opportunity to potentially kill two birds with one stone, so I have left you and I with a couple of options. But son – I am not the local police. I do not go after every criminal that comes to light."

"But –"

"No buts, son," Hunt gently chastises him. "Listen – you have no idea – hear me, Richard – you have _no idea _the sheer volume of criminal nature that is out there. You have no idea the number of people here, that you consider neighbors in this fancy hideaway, that have . . . let's say questionable ethics or just outright legal boundary problems. And don't get me started on our elected officials. I can't clean everything up. I'm not a vigilante that comes swooping in, fixing wrongs, dispensing justice," he adds.

"I am a soldier, if you will, simply following orders. Sometimes, however, when the stakes become more personal, I make and carry out my own orders. But those are the exception, son, and they have to be few and far between," he finishes. "Otherwise, I am no different than the people . . ."

Castle nods his head in understanding. He gets it. He doesn't like it, but he gets it. Hunt need say no more.

"Don't misunderstand – I appreciate this, I really do," Castle tells him. "But I can't just stand back and do nothing if this man is going to make a play for Kate again – for her team along with her. I can't stand back – surely if you know me at all, if you have been keeping tabs as it appears you have – then you know that –"

"I know, Richard," Hunt tells him. "I know."

Hunt is quiet for a moment, and he considers his son's words. They are not unexpected, but they nevertheless still carry weight once they are articulated. His son makes his mind up for him.

"Exactly how long is this long game you are willing to play?" Castle asks.

"Tell you what," Hunt tells him. "First things first."

He stands and waves for Castle to follow him. Martha and Alexis stand, but he waves them away.

"No, both of you stay here. It's for you own good, believe me," and his tone indicates there will be no negotiation or compromise on this point. Jackson Hunt and Castle walk to the front door, and exit the house, walking down the secluded driveway to the detached garage. Hunt pulls out a remote garage door opener, and depresses a button which opens the double-car garage door.

"Where did you get that?" Castle asks, incredulously again.

"Really, Richard?" his father gives him, with a slight chuckle. Castle simply shakes his head, muttering to himself.

"You know, for someone who writes stories about murder and political intrigue and espionage, you certainly are a bit of a killjoy, you know that?" Hunts says, still chuckling, as he enters the garage. "That's far enough for you," Hunt tells him.

Castle sees the black SUV that he can only assume belongs to his father, and his writer's mind starts putting the equations together, piecing together what – or who – is likely in this SUV. He steps forward, inside, and simply stares at Hunt.

"Are you sure, son?" he asks him. "Do you know what this means if –"

"I know what it means," Castle tells him.

Hunt nods his head, and immediately closes the garage door, leaving the two men alone in the garage with the large black SUV that Hunt had secretly parked before Castle had arrived.

"You know, for a minute there, I wondered if you would show up and pull here into the garage – which would have made our initial meeting a little less . . ."

"Yeah," Castle agrees, not forcing him to complete his thought.

Another remote click, this time for the SUV, and the trunk hatch slowly lifts, revealing a bound and gagged – and very frightened and angry Scott Dunn trussed up by his hands and feet with fairly heavy chains.

Jackson Hunt stands back, allowing his son a good look at the serial killer, a good look at the man who has damaged his little girl, and terrorized his mother. He allows his son a good look at the man who has caused his family, his friends and loved ones such pain. Then he steps forward, standing next to Castle.

"So – Mr. Dunn – two things you deserve to know. First, the man you recognize standing next to me is my son."

Dunn's eyes widen in fearful recognition, and then within seconds, dull with certain realization of his fate.

"Two," Jackson Hunt continues, "until about half an hour ago, I really wasn't sure what I was going to do with you. But then I saw my granddaughter."

Dunn's muffled pleas are contained by the tight gag on his mouth. The pleas are short, however, as the silenced pistol barks once, putting a single bullet into the head of the serial killer. Richard Castle watches, unmoved. For a moment, Jackson Hunt begins to second-guess bringing his son down to witness this event, but he realizes in that moment that Richard Castle, the fun-loving novelist who shadowed a police detective died two weeks ago. There was no funeral, no memorial service. But just as sure as he is standing here, Jackson Hunt knows his son lost a part of his humanity when he got his daughter back.

"Now, for the message we want to send . . . I've found a third option," Hunt tells him.

**A/N:** I went back and forth on this chapter, trying to decide whether or not to place Castle at the scene of Dunn's murder. I decided that in this AU, after what has happened to his daughter, and for what he is going to have to prepare himself to do as he ultimately goes up against his unseen enemy – this Castle needed to take a different fork in the road. I hope you understand, and stay with this to the end.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Long Game: 5**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Richard Castle's Home in the Hamptons, 4:05 p.m., March 10, 2012**_

Jackson Hunt works quietly and quickly, with efficiency forged in years of field experience. He has sent Richard Castle back into the house, to "keep Martha and Alexis busy." That, of course, was code for "don't let them come into the garage while I clean up."

And this is going to be a serious clean-up job.

He has just cut off all five digits from each of the hands of the now-deceased Scott Dunn. This message he is going to send cannot be ambiguous. He knows their new, common enemy very well. This message has to be well-articulated. He is committed to ensure that it is just that.

He places each of the fingers in a small, insulated box filled with ice. He nods his head as he verifies the lack of fingerprints on the digits. Along with his other clues, there will be no doubt as to the identity of the victim. Their enemy is a very smart man. It will not take him long to figure it out.

He walks to the front passenger door, and opens it quickly, unlatching the glove compartment box, and retrieving a small bag. He brings the bag back and dumps it into a small plastic box along with the missing fingers. He goes to the back seat, and opens a duffle bag, and quickly retrieves two other small pieces. He smiles as he places them in the box with the other items. Satisfied that the message will be received, he closes the box, and tapes it securely.

Taking a quick look around, and satisfied that nothing is out of place, he closes the hatch lid, and climbs into the front seat of the SUV, and opens the garage door as he powers the vehicle to life. As he backs out of the garage, he dials a number on his cell phone – a burner phone of course. Two rings later, a familiar female voice answers.

"Ready for me?" he asks.

"Where?" the voice asks.

"The grocery store. I will be there in seven minutes," he tells her.

"I will be there in five," she tells him. "Where is the small package?"

"In the trunk area, alongside the larger package."

"Got it," she says as she disconnects.

He takes a deep breath, focusing his thoughts on the next phase of his plan. His son's involvement has changed things only slightly, in his mind. He nods his head, and allows himself to finally relax – at least for the next seven minutes – as he drives to the grocery store.

Six minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot. She has been waiting, and drives and parks her virtually identical black SUV in the parking space next to him. She immediately gets out, as does he and he leaves his vehicle running. She walks past him and gets into the front seat of his SUV, while he walks past her and turns to head into the grocery store.

"You know what to do," he reminds her as he passes her, and it is totally unnecessary.

"No worries – go take care of things," she tells him.

"Thank you, Elena," he says with a smile, and she almost returns the smile as she closes the door and puts the car in gear and drives away. Almost.

He continues walking toward the front door of the grocery store, roughly thirty yards away, and doesn't look back. He doesn't need to. She is the consummate professional, and has never let him down in over fifteen years of working with each other – sometimes he at her command, and other times, like now, where she does his bidding. Theirs is an easy alliance, built upon years of trust in the most trying of circumstances. Theirs is an alliance which transcends political parties, and it transcends government initiatives.

Ten minutes later, he walks out of the store with a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. He unlocks the SUV that she arrived in, and throws the bag in the back seat. He guns the engine, and heads back to his son's beach residence, smiling broadly as he considers the reaction his 'gift' will likely incite.

_**Senator William Bracken's Home in Columbia Heights, Washington, D.C., 8:15 p.m., March 12, 2012**_

Senator William Bracken arrives home somewhat early this evening from Capitol Hill. His wife is pleasantly surprised that he is able to get home early for once, and is almost ready to go. He has told her that he already made reservations at their favorite place in Foggy Bottom. He considers changing clothes, decides against it, then changes his mind and follows her into their bedroom, untying his dark red and blue tie as he walks into the closet.

"By the way, you have a package, Will," she tells him, as she sits back at the vanity to apply the remainder of her make-up.

"Sent here?" he asks, surprised. He is careful to make sure that most any package he expects will be sent to his office, where his trusted staff will know how to handle. Then again, Liz is no stranger to the Senator's rather draconian methods. He met his wife during their second year of college, and she quickly decided that there were far worse roles to play than that of a power wife on the American political circuit. After graduation, the two married, and she stepped into her role.

The blonde-haired beauty looks to be an exquisite, loyal housewife who fiercely supports her husband and his ambitions. Those looks, however, prove to be deceiving for unsuspecting enemies of the Senator, who have no idea about the ruthless edge the woman hides, nor the ambitions she keeps between her husband and herself. Those close to the Senator on his staff, however, are well aware not to cross this beautiful woman.

"I thought it odd, also," she tells him. "No postage."

"That _is_ curious," he agrees, knowing immediately that this is a package that someone has hand-delivered. Hand-delivered to his place of residence.

"I placed it in the cabinet in the garage," she tells him.

"_Good woman,"_ he thinks to himself. "Thank you, love. I will go check on it now," he says, dropping the tie and selecting a more colorful tie with green hues, opting to wear the same suit.

He walks out of the kitchen area through the door to the porte cochere, and on to the detached two-car garage to the side. Once in the garage, he shuts the door, turns on the light and heads straight to the cabinet along the door-side wall. Retrieving the package, he looks at the brown wrapping paper covering what he immediately recognizes as a box inside. There are no postal markings – no writing, in fact, save his name and address.

He goes to the wall and retrieves a filter mask, and places it over his mouth and nose. One can never be too careful, not in this town. The wrapping comes off harmlessly, and Bracken slowly opens the plastic box, taking the lid off the corners carefully. When Bracken opens the gift box, he sees a clear baggie with what appear to be bullets, and a smaller container. Ignoring the baggie, he removes the smaller box. It is somewhat cold to the touch, immediately setting off his senses. He already recognizes this to be a message. At this point, he cannot be sure what the message is or who it is from.

It doesn't matter. He will find out soon enough.

He opens the smaller box, and is greeted by the sight of ten severed fingers.

It's a ballsy message – he will give them that – whoever 'they' are. He smiles, knowing that somewhere along the line, he has obviously rattled the cage of a potentially worthy adversary. He looks forward to finding out just who this person is – or so he thinks.

He notices a few other items in the larger box along with the severed fingers, and decides, at this point, that a closer – and more private – investigation is warranted. He takes out his phone and touches his wife's picture, ringing her cell phone.

"Problems?" she asks. She knows he is calling about the package.

"Maybe," he tells her. "Give me ten minutes."

"Okay. Want me to call and push back the reservation?"

"No, no. This won't take long, love" he promises, and then disconnects the call.

Drawing his head back from the box, he replaces the lid atop the box, and walks slowly toward the opposite wall of the garage, walking around the parked 2011 Mercedes sedan and ducks behind the car. He reaches under his workbench and flips a lever. A puff of dust escapes as a small six foot by six foot portion of the floor partially drops out, revealing a descending set of stairs that drop out of site. He takes the stairs, the lights in his small cavern coming on with the motion of his movements. Eight steps later, at the bottom of the stairs, he flips another lever which pushes the upstairs floor back up and into place.

Anyone who came into the garage would be completely unaware of the hidden room underneath their feet. Years ago, he had contracted with a small, family-owned local outfit to build this hidden, downstairs panic room after he had the original garage torn down. As a way of thanking them, he had treated the family to an all-expenses trip to the Bahamas. Unfortunately, a boating accident just off shore from the island took the lives of the entire family. That sort of thing just happens sometimes. The Senator made great headlines as he publically grieved for the family that he had grown close to as they rebuilt his garage.

He sits at his metal desk, and re-opens the box, now taking the contents out for a more thorough examination. He starts with the small baggie. The fingers are obvious. He will come back to them.

Inside the baggie are five used bullets. Now that is a strange one. Even stranger, there are letters on the bullets. It takes him less than ten seconds of moving the bullets around to figure out the riddle.

The bullets spell the name "NIKKI".

Earlier, two days prior, as Jackson Hunt had placed the bullets into the baggie back at Richard Castle's garage, he had to stifle a chuckle as he imagined the people at the 12th precinct going through boxes, wondering how – and when - those bullets disappeared. He had managed to retrieve them a week ago, before he arranged for Dunn to get snatched.

Bracken takes a second look, as if a second look was necessary for confirmation. The bullets indeed spell out "NIKKI".

This raises an eyebrow. Nikki Heat. Better known to him as 'that fucking Detective Kate Beckett'. Now more than just curious, he takes another look at the fingers. There are no rings, no ring marks, no distinguishing marks –

No distinguishing marks! He reaches into the desk and retrieves a pair of sterile, thin nylon gloves and places them on his hands. Now he takes a few of the fingers out of the insulated container. Yep - sure enough. No fingerprints.

"Hmmm," he mutters, his eyebrows rising again.

He knows everything there is to know about Kate Beckett. And one of the things he knows is that two years ago, a psychopath had turned his sights on her, and the bullets used in his first killing spelled out the name 'NIKKI'. He also knows that this serial killer had made a second move on the detective – this time a bit more artistically done. He's obviously heard the reports that someone had sprung the killer on his way to arraignment, and honestly, the news had given Senator Bracken a good laugh.

"_I'm sure the detective is in full panic mode now,"_ he had mused to himself, smiling. Now, he has a decidedly different reaction, because it is not a large leap of logic to assume that the fingers inside this container belong to Scott Dunn. The lack of fingerprints is a strong clue, along with the bullets he used.

His thoughts now transition to the writer. Richard Castle.

He's seen the news reports, and heard the rumors that the novelist might have been involved with Dunn's abduction. That doesn't compute with him. The writer doesn't have it in him. More often than not, he's hidden behind the detective. Still, he is probably considered – at a minimum – a person of interest to the feds. And the fingers in the box tell him that – at best – Scott Dunn is going to have problems eating and writing in the future. At worst?

A fairly sinister smile paints the Senator's face, as he begins to wonder exactly how much he may have underestimated the writer. Then he sees them – the two small pieces in the box.

One is a small, white rook chess piece, and the inference is unmistakable. Castle. He takes the chess piece out of the box and places it on the desk table in front of him. He looks back into the box.

The second item is a small pewter dragon – also unmistakable as well. He retrieves the small namesake of his whispered nickname among the less savory elements and places it next to the other items.

The bullets spelling 'NIKKI' tell him who the fingers belong to. The lack of fingerprints pretty much confirms it. The rook and the dragon pieces are a clear message as well. They are a warning.

Richard Castle is challenging him?

Okay, he has to admit this is a surprise, but is he really going to back away from a challenge from the writer? True, the message sent is one that he never would have guessed the writer had in him. Gruesome, ruthless. He tries to imagine – unsuccessfully - the novelist extracting these fingers from Dunn's hands. He doesn't have it in him.

Then he re-thinks his position.

"_I guess a man is capable of anything once you threaten his children,"_ he mutters under his breath, nodding his head in grudging admiration. This will be interesting, sure, but nothing to lose any sleep over. The question in his mind, however, is 'why'?

"_Why now?"_ he wonders. _"I had nothing to do with Scott Dunn. Why bring the fight to me?"_ It then occurs to him that perhaps the writer has become aware of his new plans for the detective. Plans that likely are going to include the writer. He immediately dismisses the notion. How would he possibly know those plans?

He glances back into the larger box, and now he sees the final item. Somehow, in the poor lighting of his garage upstairs, he had missed the final item. It is a small, single, smooth stone.

Senator William Bracken feels a sudden chill – and it briefly unnerves him. Very, very few things – and even fewer people – scare the Senator. But this man does.

The man behind the stone. His calling card in dark world of spooks and spies, if you believe that kind of thing - which he does. These are the men and women who move behind the scenes, answering more to an ideal than a person. When these men and women are turned loose, there is no recalling them. There is no 'oops' or 'hold that order' with these people. Once an order is given, there is no way to even contact them. They contact you once the order is fulfilled.

And the only thing worse than when these people are assigned, is when these people make their own assignments. Oh, it's against the written and unwritten code, and they know it - everyone knows it. But everyone also knows that every now and then, someone makes the unimaginably painful error of crossing one of these assassins in a personal way. And when they exact their revenge, it is brutal beyond measure.

And now, the assassin behind the stone has just sent him a very clear warning: Stay away from Kate Beckett, and stay away from Richard Castle.

Or, is it something entirely different? His right hand massages his chin, as he falls deeper into thought, calculating the various possibilities. He did not get where he is by jumping to the first conclusion that popped into his head. He won't make that mistake now, either.

The stone and the bullets? Are they connected in a deeper way? Is Beckett connected in any way to the Stone. He considers this for a moment, and discounts it straight away. That does not seem plausible. Kate Beckett's mother is dead, and her father is a recovering alcoholic. He is completely harmless. Bracken recalls almost taking the man out simply to send a message to the detective, a few weeks after her shooting, while she was recovering in her dad's cabin, thinking she was safely tucked away. If only she knew . . .

No, there isn't a connection there. She has no brothers or sisters. Neither parent is a threat.

That leaves the Rook. Even the signature move the piece plays utters his name. Castle.

The Rook, the Dragon and the Stone. He idly moves the pieces around on his desk, whistling as he considers these new options. "Winds of Change" has always been a favorite of his, one of the power ballads from an earlier time. He unknowingly whistles the song's iconic intro as he often does when he is deep in thought.

Suddenly he stops. He has the items positioned so that the smooth stone is first, next to the chess piece. The pewter dragon he puts off to the side along with the bullets.

Is there a connection here, he wonders?

Richard Castle lives with his mother. Or rather, his mother lives with him. Whatever. The fool Dunn could have eliminated her, but he always did get caught up in his stupid little games. But Richard Castle's father?

Nothing is known about his father. He disappeared before his child was even born.

Hmmm – why would a man do that – have zero contact with his son so that his son would never even know him - even after his son has made millions of dollars – and Richard Castle has done that in spades. Even after his son has become highly famous, and what even he would consider wealthy, the deadbeat never even comes back to try and reconcile, even if for no other reason than pure avarice? That doesn't compute . . . unless . . .

He nods his head slowly – this is making sense. This falls into place nicely. Well, not nicely, but certainly logically. He – for the first time – considers his actions against an over-zealous, crusading attorney over a decade ago in a new light. He finds himself now wondering if those actions have ultimately drawn in the son of one of the most feared assassins in the country – and one of the few that Senator William Bracken knows that he somehow, cannot pull under his control.

No, this is not good at all, not good at all. No one – absolutely no one – has come into the crosshairs of the Stone and walked away. Bracken is arrogant, he is ruthless. He is many things. But he is not a fool. He does not consider his chances of being the first to survive an engagement with this assassin to be to his liking.

"_This does change things,"_ he tells himself, as he starts to replace all of the items, putting them back into the box. He places the box in one of the drawers of the metal desk, and stands, discarding the nylon gloves and then shaking imaginary dust from his pants. He walks toward the stairs, and hits the lever, causing the floor up top to fall open again. He walks up the steps, and bends, to use the lever under his workbench one final time to close the floor.

Within seconds, he is back in the house, and it strikes him that he wasn't even aware that he was out of the garage, or even outside walking under the porte cochere. That in itself, is telling enough for the man.

"Is everything all right?" he wife asks him, her beautiful eyes masking the menace hovering just underneath.

"For now, yes," he lies to her. He's not sure. He's not sure of anything. They will talk tonight, in whispered tones over dinner. For now, he wants to get out of his house, out of his home.

"He knows where we live," he thinks to himself, and for the first time in his political adult life, the dragon feels the sting of being on the other end of the hunt.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Long Game: Chapter 6**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Richard Castle's Home in the Hamptons, 9:00 a.m., March 13, 2012**_

"So, here is what's going to happen next, son," Jackson Hunt tells his son, Richard Castle. The two men sit in the den of Castle's home in the Hamptons, currently undisturbed by Castle's mother and daughter. The past two days have been a whirlwind, a contradiction of emotions for both father and son.

Jackson Hunt is getting used to the idea of finally, finally – after over forty years – being able to interact directly with the son he has watched – and protected – from afar for so long. Even if this is just a brief aberration, which deep down Hunt knows is likely the case, he is working hard to maximize his time, however limited it may be, with one Richard Castle. The downside? He knows that becoming visible, even ever so briefly, has its disadvantages. He is doing his best to keep an invisible profile, but all it takes is for the wrong enemy to put two and two together regarding he and Richard Castle.

Bracken? He's not worried about him. Bracken plays the political games behind the scenes. Hunt can do that with the best of them. No, Hunt is worried about other cat and mouse people out there like himself. People who, once turned loose, operate with a more direct, precise approach.

Richard Castle, for his part, is getting used to the idea that he actually has a father – one who exists, who is alive, and who is standing right in front of him. His mind accepts the logic of why his father left, of why his father stayed away for over four decades until now. His brain accepts this logic. His heart does not.

It hasn't been an easy time for either of them, and Martha and Alexis certainly have not made things any easier. Martha is both rejuvenated by, and wary of, the prodigal father who has returned out of nowhere. A forty-year hiatus surprisingly hasn't killed off all of the feelings that have lain dormant, and now they simmer out of control for her. At the same time, how in the world do you trust a man that has up and left once, and is someone you fully expect to do the same again?

Answer: you don't.

The two men sit in the comfort – and relative darkness – of Castle's den. Hunt is taking the time to fully explain what will likely happen next in this deadly game of human chess.

"In two days, maybe three, depending upon the currents, Scott Dunn's body is going to find its way to civilization, just north of here," Hunt tells him, causing a look of surprise and worry to crease the brow of his son. "It will come ashore somewhere between Bridgeport and West Haven, Connecticut. Far enough from you that nothing can be tied directly back to you, but close enough so that suspicion on your involvement will certainly increase and likely get out of control fairly quickly."

"Why?" Castle asks, stating the obvious question. "Why not just dispose of the body where no will ever find it? Doesn't that make more sense?"

"Not really," Hunt replies, and then seeing Castle's expression, realizes he needs to elaborate. "There are a few good reasons, actually."

He stands as he makes his way across the den to the ledge over the fireplace, where he has left their small plate of fruit. Grabbing the plate, he begins nibbling on apple slices before continuing.

"One – Alexis needs closure. Martha probably does as well. Her nightmares aren't going to just stop on their own, or because of whatever couch time you are paying for, for her," he says, glancing at his son to ensure he understands that no offense is meant.

"Knowing that the man who took her is dead, knowing that the man who took the both of them is dead, well, that will be pretty damn important for them, trust me." He watches his son nod his head slightly, in some understanding, but he hasn't bought in completely. Not yet.

"Richard, it is one thing to know that he _probably_ won't come back to hurt you. It is another thing entirely knowing he absolutely _cannot _come back. I mean to give them that assurance."

Castle opens his mouth to begin to speak, but is stymied as his father raises a hand, stopping him from speaking – just yet.

"Two – the message we sent to Senator Bracken a few days ago, it needs an exclamation point."

"Ten fingers wasn't an exclamation point? Castle asks incredulously, now standing and making his way over to the fruit plate as well.

"Not for William Bracken, it wasn't." Hunt holds the plate out to Castle, allowing him to grab a few orange slices in his hands. He watches as the younger son casually tosses a slice into his mouth, before grabbing a second slice.

"But a body washing up on the shore," Hunt smiles knowingly, "well, that is another thing. Trust me, the Senator does _not_ expect that this body will ever show up. No way he expects this body to make an appearance, not with the massive visibility this case is already garnering."

He checks his son for any hint of misunderstanding. Finding none, Hunt continues again.

"He knows that a message has been sent to him, and he knows that you, Richard, are a part of that message. He suspects you will not wish to implicate yourself with the police. So he will _never_ expect the body to turn up. In my business, a body is never found unless the perpetrator _wants_ the body to be found. Dismembered fingers told him you were somewhat pissed off. The body turning up tells him you no longer are just pissed off, but you are deadly serious. More importantly, a body tells him that you are not afraid of the police. Bracken needs to know this as well. It makes you more of a wildcard. He thinks he knows you. We are going to put some doubt into his mind."

The two men make their way back to the two chairs, angled toward the fireplace. Hunt decides to sit, while Castle continues to stand.

"Three – he knows my reputation," Hunt continues. A body showing up is a necessity if he is to suspect that I am involved."

Castle doesn't speak – not yet. Instead, he simply holds the gaze of this absolutely strange and frightening man who has just walked back into his life and ceremonially knocked over all of Rick's carefully placed pieces.

"And finally, number four. For this to work - for this to not completely fall apart ? Your friends at the 12th have to look at you differently," he tells him, and for the first time he sees the emotion in his son's eyes. He sees the hesitation. He knew that his son would balk at this point, even momentarily.

"They have to suspect you of wrong doing, Richard. They have to pull their trust, their confidence away from you. Bracken will have eyes and ears everywhere, believe me. And if reports get back to him that all is hunky dory with you and your detective friends at the precinct, well then he will know that he is being played."

Castle reluctantly nods in agreement, giving in to the indisputable logic being presented. This_ is_, after all, his father's area of expertise.

"There is no way the police suspect you, but your friends at the precinct act like nothing is wrong. So a body needs to wash up, missing digits – in a location that supports the notion of you dropping the body into the Long Island Sound, and currents washing the body ashore. Don't worry, there will be no DNA evidence to link you at all – but the circumstantial evidence will be strong. And that will be enough to drive a truck-sized wedge between you and your friends.

"For how long?" Castle asks him.

"For as long as it takes," is Hunt's response. The two men sit in silence, digesting the plan laid out by Hunt. Finally, Hunt himself breaks the silence.

"And then finally, there will be Bracken's message to us."

"What message is that?" Castle asks, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Can this possibly get worse?

"Bracken can't get a message directly to me. He doesn't know how to contact me directly. And he will hesitate to contact _you_ directly. I suspect the package we sent him will shake him momentarily. But he will need some way to let me know that he's received the message."

"How will he do that?"

"Detective Beckett," he says.

"What?"

"He will send the package we sent him to Beckett. With that package, he will include a message to you, telling you that he has received our message. He knows she will tell you. And by extension, I will then know."

"You believe he will send that grotesque package to Kate?" Castle asks, not believing this for a moment. He doesn't give the spy dad any time at all to interrupt.

"But if he sends the package to Beckett," Castle continues, "then she will know – she will think I really _am_ a part of this. That I did kill him, and . . . and dismember him."

"No – she won't know for certain, Richard. But she has to wonder. It's critical that she not be certain. Her natural instincts are going to scream at her that there is no way you could do this. But she is also a detective, and the casual but mounting evidence is going to suggest a link to you. But all you need is plausible deniability, Richard, and you will have that. Now remember, she doesn't trust Bracken. She won't understand why we would have sent this to Bracken in the first place. She isn't aware that he is coming after her again. She won't trust him. But she will have questions about you. And we need her to have those questions, Richard. We need her second-guessing you. It will make her reactions, her decisions, and her behavior very sincere, very believable."

Castle doesn't like it. He understands the plan, but why should he like it? He's spent four long years, formulating friendships, building trust, building alliances. He knows that rebuilding those alliances and trusts will take even longer to restore – if that is even possible. In the back of his mind, he has still seen himself somehow, at some point, back at the precinct, working with his friends.

Working with her.

Even with her betrayal, her lie, even with him being as angry as he has ever been with her - he has seen them working together again – somehow working through things. Probably not as closely entwined ever again, but still working together.

This will change all of that completely.

_**Two days later at the 12th Precinct, 3:45 p.m., March 15, 2012**_

Kate Beckett sits at her desk, completely lost in the paperwork she mindlessly signs and documents from the case they have just closed. It was another boring case, another boring and routine collar. No rhyme or reason, just a stupid, senseless homicide. She stops, putting her pen down to glance across the desks at her two detective partners, who are tossing a soft-ball-sized red ball between them. She smiles, appreciating and reveling in the routine of it all.

It's been almost three weeks since the 'Magic Games' as the press has dubbed them, ended – with the arrest of Scott Dunn and the total, utter destruction of Richard Castle's loft home. As it turned out, that isn't the only thing that Dunn has managed to destroy.

Castle's reputation is being destroyed, as enough circumstantial evidence points to him to make even her wonder. Even the boys have their doubts, now. She sees it in their eyes.

Castle's once impenetrable trust of her is destroyed, completely shattered with the revelation of her dramatic lie. Even the boys shake their head at that one. She sees that in their eyes also.

So she does what she does best: she loses herself in the job, become even more focused, if that is possible, on the 'mission de jour', searching for absolution in the resolution of these cases that do nothing to wash away her guilt, her sadness, over what she has lost. Over what she threw away so carelessly. With each passing month, her lie became easier to live with. And with each passing month, the wood piled onto the bonfire of truth that eventually was lit – and for all she knows, still burns, rampaging everything in its path.

She opens her mouth to speak when her desk phone rings. She sighs, knowing that she ignores it at her own risk. Picking up the phone, frowning already, she greets her caller.

"Beckett."

"Hello Detective Beckett," Chief John Brady says in greeting. She recognizes his voice, which is clipped, as if he is trying very hard – too hard – to maintain a level of authority. If she weren't so tired, she would almost laugh at the young chief from the Hamptons.

"This is Chief Brady," he continues.

"I recognize your voice, Chief," she tells him. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid, detective, and I am afraid I can't do much for you either," he tells her, causing her head to snap up and bringing her senses to full alert. Somehow, she has physically changed her posture, visibly, because Ryan and Esposito have stopped their little ball toss game and are now all ears, leaning in as if that will help them hear this conversation better.

"What's this about, Chief?" she asks, now highly concerned, lip-synching his name to her two partners. Both men rise out of their chairs and walk toward her desk. In a moment of highly unusual transparency, she hits the speaker button and places the handset in the cradle, giving the two men an open ear to the conversation.

Both men recognize the unusual and unique transparency that she offers. Esposito raises an eyebrow to Beckett, who simply but forcefully waves them to sit down with her at her desk. Javier sits atop the desk corner, while Kevin Ryan stands next to him.

Neither men attempt to sit in the empty chair right next to her desk.

His chair.

"Detective, you asked me to call you if there was any new movement or development on the Scott Dunn case on our end . . ."

All three detectives move ever closer, forward, their heads down, so as not to miss a single word. Each of them has the dreaded feeling that everything is about to change. Beckett had asked him to call if something new came up. He's clearly not wasting their time calling to tell her _nothing_ has come up. That is clear to each of them.

"Yes, go on," she encourages him.

"Well, something has come up. More specifically, a body has come up."

She hangs her head up, while both men beside her whisper encouragements to her.

"What do you mean?" she asks, already knowing the answer.

"A body washed ashore about an hour ago across the Sound from us in Woodmont. Well, it was found about an hour ago, that much we know. It's Dunn, detective. It's Scott Dunn."

"You've verified his identity?" she asks, knowing that they have, but she needs to hear all of it.

"As best we can, detective," he tells her. "The body has been mutilated."

That piece of information picks Javier Esposito off her desk, stumbling backward a step or two, staring at Kevin Ryan, who stands open-mouthed. Neither men can fathom this information, and are having difficulty processing it. If the body was found in Woodmont . . . that's near West Haven. That means the body washed up from the Sound.

Castle's home is on the other side of the Sound.

There are no coincidences in detective work. That is one of the first rules they all learn. So none of the three listen to the location of the body and discount it as coincidence. Each of their thoughts sprint toward their good friend, the writer.

"Projections from the sea current lead us to believe that someone dropped the body off from a distance in the Sound," the Chief continues. "I don't have to tell you that this doesn't look very well for your friend out here."

"How bad?" she asks, glancing at her two friends.

"I'm enroute to pick him up as we speak, Detective. I should be there in a couple of minutes. This is just a courtesy call."

All three recognize that, yeah, this is a courtesy call, but it is one that was delayed until the Chief was close to Castle's house. Just in case his 'friends at the 12th' wanted to give him a heads-up. Each of them spends the next few seconds wondering what they would have done with this information had they received it half an hour ago.

Finally, Kate breaks the silence.

"Where will you be taking him?" she asks.

"We will hold him here, possibly overnight. We are waiting for the Feds to arrive."

No one has to tell her – or her partners – what that particular circus is going to be like. Scott Dunn disappearing from a Federal vehicle on his way to arraignment has been a public relations disaster for the Feds. It is a black eye that continues to blister every day, as the press wonders where the serial killer is, whether he is alive, whether the Feds were involved in his escape, and what role did a certain mystery writer play in all of this?

So yeah, finding Scott Dunn – dead or alive – is an answered prayer to the local Feds. And since he is dead, well someone is going to have to answer for this, in the public eye. There is face to be saved, after all. And who better to answer for it than the one man that the press has already half-crucified in headlines and columnist articles, in the late night news broadcasts, and in the radio call-in shows.

"Do you think Castle did this?" Esposito asks his two friends, suddenly both stunned at their hesitation to comment, and equally ashamed at the thoughts currently racing through his mind.

_**Simultaneously at 3:45 p.m. at Richard Castle's Hampton Home, March 15, 2012**_

The wailing sirens approaching the beach home are the signal that both men have been waiting for over the past couple of days.

"I will be back," Jackson Hunt tells the three people standing with him at the back door, leading out to the dunes just a short jog away. "I promise you. But as I said, Richard must walk out this next phase on his own."

Martha Rodgers steps forward, giving him a quick hug, then takes the hand of her grand-daughter into her own to bring her inside. Alexis, for her part, quickly releases her grandmother's hand, and steps into the chest of her long-lost grandfather.

"Thank you," she whispers. The two words along with the tears on the young woman's cheeks are enough for the older man, and his son who stands next to him. They will be enough for Jackson Hunt as he bides his time to return in the distant weeks ahead. They will be enough for Richard Castle as he bides his time – undoubtedly in a federal jail cell – for who knows how long.

The news reports had interrupted all of the mid-day network shows about half an hour ago, and as soon as both women had heard the news of the missing body that had washed ashore, they knew the truth. Neither father nor son needed to confirm their involvement, and so neither did.

But the women know. And it has given them a portion of the silent, strengthening peace that both women have sought for weeks now.

Martha and Alexis walk in doors, while Castle hurries his father to the steps leading down to the sand.

"Go," he tells him.

"You're sure you are ready for-"

"Go," Castle tells him again. "I have this."

Jackson Hunt jogs a few steps down, before turning back.

"Thank you." Both men say the words simultaneously, and then share a small, wistful smile. Then Jackson Hunt is gone, out of sight, while Richard Castle walks calmly back into his home. He gazes into the living room, taking in the bright décor. He glances back into the kitchen, then towards the den, memorizing features and little things. He turns back to the open back door, and sniffs loudly, breathing in the ocean air.

He doesn't know when he will have these all-too-often taken-for-granted liberties again. He is relishing these final seconds when the doorbell rings, and glances at the faces of his mother and daughter, who are trying to be strong.

"Thank you," his daughter mouths again, tears in her eyes, but a fire and fierceness there again that he hasn't seen in weeks.

"_So worth it,"_ he thinks to himself, as he walks to the door and opens it to Chief John Brady and two deputies.

"Richard Castle, you are under arrest for the murder of Scott Dunn."


	7. Chapter 7

**The Long Game: Chapter 7**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**The Hamptons Police Department, 8:00 p.m., March 15, 2012**_

"You have a visitor, Mr. Castle," Chief Brady tells him.

Richard Castle lies on the solitary twin-sized bed, with a thin, cheap blanket at the edge. He's been here now for the last four or so hours. The short ride from his beach home to the police station had been quiet and uneventful. That is – until the police cruiser had pulled up to station, where they were met by roughly twenty to thirty members of the press. Evidently Chief Brady had ensured that a welcoming committee would greet their newest celebrity guest.

The irony of all of the microphones stuffed in front of his face, the clicking of cameras – this has not been lost on the writer who is absolutely to such treatment from the press – just clearly not under these circumstances. He uses his experience in the public and paparazzi eye to get him from the cruiser to inside of the small station building with as little fanfare as possible, all things considered.

"_Keep up appearances, son," _Jackson Hunt had warned him just hours before, in anticipation of what was coming._ "Don't let them see you hanging your head, don't let them see you sneaking in or sulking. Hold your head up. Remember, you are putting on a performance – and the audience you are playing for will not be there in person. He will be watching from afar, on his television later in the evening."_

His head lies on the single pillow provided with the bed – it is a cot really, not much of a bed. He keeps his eyes closed – he hasn't been asleep, but he's kept his eyes closed for much of the time in the cell, recalling his father's words to him from earlier in the day.

"_When you get to your cell, Richard, try to relax. The best thing will be to keep your eyes closed. Adjusting is easier that way. With your eyes closed, you aren't confined inside the three walls and set of bars. With your eyes closed, you aren't trapped in a strange place, away from your daughter and your mother. With your eyes closed, you can be anywhere. You can be on a sun-drenched beach. You can be on snow-capped mountains. You can be sitting on your large chair on the deck of this beautiful home, staring at the Atlantic."_

He has taken those words to heart, and they have proven to be correct. It's no surprise, though, as he realizes that his father has likely been no stranger to captivity during his decades under cover. Clearly those were words of first-hand experience he had shared with him.

"Mr. Castle," the Chief tells him again, this time rapping on the bars to get his prisoner's attention. "You have a visitor."

He smells her before he opens his eyes to see her. Her perfume is faint, but the few hours he has spent with eyes closed has focused him on his other senses, as he escaped his surroundings. What he smells, what he hears – he's had to try to drown their words out as well, as he waited.

Yeah, he's been waiting for this. Waiting for her. He knew word of his arrest would get back to New York soon enough. The Chief would have made certain of that, of that much he is certain – given the small-scale media circus that was waiting for his arrival at the station. For his part, Chief Brady has been a mixture of detached professionalism and secret empathy. He finds it difficult to fathom that the writer he knows personally would be capable of murder, and certainly not the mutilations on the body that was found. He views Castle as highly intelligent, with great courage – but no real stomach for the messy stuff.

And this one was messy.

Castle doesn't move. Not yet. He doesn't open his eyes yet either. He will let her speak when she is ready. It's not like he is going anywhere anytime soon, and he almost chuckles to himself at the thought. Almost. Besides, their words between one another lately have been few – and borderline civil – since the end of Scott Dunn's siege.

"Castle?"

Her greeting opens his eyes, as he stares first at the ceiling above, readjusting his vision. Within a few seconds, his gaze drops to the woman standing at the bars of his cell. He consciously avoids her eyes. She wears her customary dark business suit with a blue top, that she works in, and he assumes she came straight from the city once she found out about his arrest.

His assumption is spot on. The detective had dropped everything after hanging up with Chief Brady, almost four hours ago. She has made decent time, given traffic, to get here to the station in the Hamptons. Surprisingly, there are still one or two media outlets still hanging out outside the station – apparently waiting for the Feds to swoop in and confiscate their prisoner. During the ride here, she had played and replayed the conversation she would have with her ex-partner. But now, standing in front of his cell, seeing him lying in captivity – her thoughts and words fail her, momentarily.

"Castle," she repeats. "Rick."

He lifts his torso off the bed, slowly swinging his legs around to meet the floor, putting his head in his hands. Suddenly his body is very tired, stiff from lying without moving for so long. He glances back at her, and their eyes finally meet for the first time in just over two weeks. It's been awhile since they have spent this much consecutive time apart. He steels himself for the part he knows he must play.

"Beckett," he says, finally standing. He takes a couple of steps toward the bars, toward her, running his hands through his hair, before stopping a good three feet behind the bars.

"What do you want?"

"I'm so sorry, Castle," she says suddenly, all prior thoughts now evaporated. Less than three weeks ago, she and the writer were in the midst of their unique dance, with each song bringing them ever closer to a union that she knew – _she knew_ – was in their future. Now, he sits in a cell, separated from his daughter who was terrorized by a madman, and firm in the knowledge that she has lied to him, continuously, about the most important of all topics.

Love. His love for her, specifically.

"I'm so sorry," she repeats. The anguish she feels, the burden she fights for him right now – she sees none of that in his eyes, and it is disconcerting. His eyes are hard, and piercing. It is a look on Richard Castle with which she is completely unfamiliar.

He's lost his home, his daughter's innocence, his faith in the woman he loved, and now he's lost his freedom. He has paid a staggering price for one Scott Dunn, whose singular purpose was to play mind games with Kate Beckett. Deep down she knows this isn't her fault, but she can't help but feel responsible. She knows the only reason he is behind bars right now is because of his relationship with her.

And now, she has to wonder if the past two weeks have finally pushed Richard Castle over the edge, into murder? The evidence is piling up, and looking far more solid than circumstantial. Still, she cannot bring herself to believe him capable of such an atrocity.

"We're all sorry, Beckett," he tells her. It's an odd statement – one with which she immediately struggles. It doesn't sound like an acceptance of an apology, and worse – it doesn't sound like a shout of innocence either. In her mind, the same scene played itself out during her ride out here. She would see him, and she would see a slightly frazzled man, using humor to play off the natural fear and concern he would definitely have. She has seen enough of Castle over the past four years to know that while courageous and brave, the man is a realist of sorts also. Jail – serious jail – is not something he will do well with.

But that is not the man staring fiercely at her right now.

"I . . . I don't understand –" she says, struggling to find the words.

"Never mind," he says, taking another step away from the bars. He places his hands in his pockets, and returns his gaze to his visitor.

"Why are you here, detective?" he asks. The impersonal title, delivered with an even less personal tone bites deeply. She shakes the hurt away, knowing she has inflicted the far more damaging wounds. She knows he feels betrayed. She knows he feels used. She knows he has moved beyond angry to something else. Something more . . . sinister?

"I needed to see you. I needed to see that you are all right, Castle."

"Well, here I am - you see me. I am all right, as you can tell. So you can leave now."

She is taken aback by the fierceness of his dismissal. She's not giving up so easily, but she recognizes that this is going to be a higher, steeper climb than she anticipated. And she has to know the truth, she needs to hear it from him.

"Castle, just tell me it isn't true," she finally says. He's been waiting for this, too. He knows she realizes that he doesn't have murder in him. But he also knows the mounting evidence is pretty compelling. And he also knows that until two weeks ago, he would have never thought he had murder in him either. Much can change in two weeks.

Once again, his mind rewinds to the earlier conversation with Jackson Hunt.

"_Remember, Rick – for now, they have to believe you are involved. Whether they believe you masterminded this, or just participated – everyone has to think you are involved," Hunt had told him. "This keeps the illusion for Bracken that you are now someone to be reckoned with. The minute Bracken sees you are not a suspect, that you didn't have anything to do with this, then he re-thinks everything. We need him convinced that I was behind this, but that you are a willing accomplice. And Richard – 'everyone' includes your detective friend."_

"Tell me you had nothing to do with this, Rick. I will believe you," Kate tells him, and he believes her. He sees how badly she wants – she _needs_ – for him to scream of his innocence.

"Tell me this is all one big mistake, and I will do everything – anything and everything – to get you out, to make this right, Rick."

He stares at her now, their eyes locked in a form of combat, and with each passing second, Kate Beckett begins to sadly re-consider and re-assess her beliefs about the writer. With each passing second of his silence, with his stone gaze the only words offered, her reality about one Richard Castle shatters into smaller, and smaller pieces.

Finally, he raises his head almost imperceptibly – she almost misses it. But he holds her gaze, and his eyes seem to soften for just a second – just a second, not more – before they harden again, and he turns from her.

"Go home, Beckett," he tells her, as her heart begins to crack and shudder, the pain in her chest increasing from a simple sting to hard pressure now. "You don't belong here."

"No, Castle, you don't get rid of me that easily," she fights back. There are no tears, no sadness. She is battling for him now, fighting for him if he won't fight for himself. "I know you, Castle, and –"

He takes three quick steps to the bars and covers the ground far more quickly than she would have imagined, his voice soft, yet harsh. He places his hands on the bars, bringing his face as close to the bars as he can.

"You _don't_ know me, Beckett," he hisses with as much menace and venom as he can manufacture. "You don't know me at all."

He turns his back, and walks back to his small cot, and in one motion, falls back onto the bed, lifting his legs and lying down. He folds his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling – willing himself not to look at her again.

"_And Richard – 'everyone' includes your detective friend."_

"We're done here, Chief," he says, almost shouting. He closes his eyes, knowing that he has spoken loudly enough that the Chief will hear him. Sure enough, he hears the footsteps coming down the hall and they come to a stop outside his cell.

"Detective Beckett?" the Chief asks Kate, who stands – stunned – at the bars, still staring at the man now lying on the bed, ignoring her.

"Detective Beckett?" the chief asks again, ready to place his hand on her shoulder, when Kate – as if making a decision in her mind – turns and walks past the police chief without a word.

Castle keeps his eyes closed, and hears her low heels click further and further away. He waits for the surefire sounds of the Chief's footsteps, which follow that of the detective's a few seconds later. Giving them both another five-count, he finally opens his eyes, with a quick glance downward toward the bars of the cell – verifying they both are gone.

He releases a long breath, only now realizing that he was holding on to his breath. He takes a couple of long, deep breaths, then closes his eyes once more. He hears the sounds of the Atlantic, feels the sand in his toes, and sees the bright freckled face and long flowing hair of his daughter sitting alongside him, building castles in the sand – ironically.

For a brief instant, her younger image is replaced by the current iteration of his daughter – short chopped hair, butchered by a madman. He wills the image away, and sees the younger version yet again, and – eyes closed – he smiles and enjoys an afternoon at the beach.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Long Game: Chapter 8**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Four Hours Ago, at the FBI Office in Chicago, 3:00 p.m., March 15, 2012**_

Special Agent Jordan Shaw sits with Agent Jason Avery in the break room at the FBI office. Together with a couple of other agents, they are watching the live CNN feed from the Hamptons area on the east coast. She had taken two weeks off to stay with Tom and Jenna, and get her family settled – as best they could – after their ordeal last month. Yesterday was her first day back on the job, and today being a Saturday, it is the weekend crew that mans the building. Jordan really doesn't need to be here, but has decided to come in to finish up a few things in order to get a fresh start on Monday.

For the past couple of days, she has been on edge more than usual. News of Scott Dunn's escape – or what was originally reported to be an escape – was met with great interest by Jordan and her husband, Tom. Like Alexis Castle, their daughter Jenna Shaw has withdrawn in the past weeks since her safe return from Scott Dunn's clutches. While – like Castle – she and Tom are ever thankful that no physical damage has been done to their daughter, the psychological trauma young Jenna faces is far from over. The nightmares, the blank stares, the sudden crying outbursts - all of this is normal, according to the family counselor that all three of them are seeing right now.

So yeah, news of Dunn's escape was literally ripping the scab off the wound, so to speak. The news today, however, has brought both elation and concern to both, as she watches the breaking news on the television monitor in the break room.

"_We are standing here along the shoreline here in Woodmont, just outside of Milford, Connecticut, where earlier today the mutilated body of Scott Dunn washed ashore in the now cordoned-off area just behind me. Viewers will recall Dunn as the serial killer responsible for numerous deaths over the past ten years, including, most recently, a family in Chicago, a cab driver in New York, all a part of a still not-fully-understood rampage that also included the destruction of a Broadway musical building and the kidnapping of two young women and two elderly people in New York City. Two of the kidnapping victims were related to well-known mystery writer Richard Castle."_

The feed switches from the female reporter standing along the beach to an image of the Old Haunt bar in New York City, which now takes up the full screen, with writing underneath.

"_Both federal and local New York police have considered Mr. Castle as person of interest for the past few days since Dunn's escape from federal authorities in front of Mr. Castle's well-known bar establishment."_

The feed now switches back to the reporter on the Connecticut beach.

"_That interest escalated dramatically this afternoon with the arrest of Mr. Castle on the grounds of suspected murder when Scott Dunn's body washed ashore. Mr. Castle is now being held in a local jail cell in the Hamptons. No bail has been set, as he is awaiting the arrival of federal authorities to transport him to an undisclosed federal location. For that, we will send viewers to the Hamptons, and Jerry Anderson."_

The feed again switches now, to Jerry Anderson, a short, stout reporter who stands outside the Hampton's jail building. To viewers at home watching television, a video of Richard Castle being led through a chain of paparazzi into the building - filmed earlier – plays onscreen to the side of Jerry, as the reporter speaks.

"_Thank you, Hannah. I'm standing outside the city jail building here in the Hamptons, where just minutes ago, Richard Castle was processed. A warrant for his arrest was served at his beach home here in the area, and as you can see from the accompanying video, his arrival here was somewhat of a celebrity event. There has been much speculation that Mr. Castle either arranged – or was at a minimum, involved in – the abduction of Scott Dunn from federal officers just days ago on March 10__th__. That mounting speculation exploded earlier today when Dunn's horribly mutilated body was found just across the Sound from where we stand this afternoon."_

Much of what else is being said on the screen is lost to Jordan Shaw. She is transfixed on the video images of one Richard Castle, being led through a media circus from the parking area into the jail building. Jordan isn't one to say that she knows Richard Castle all that well, but she _has_ spent enough time with him to at least formulate impressions. After all, as a profiler, it's what she does, whether intentional or nor.

What she sees from his image on the screen concerns her only in the fact that she can't read him. In two different previous settings, she has been able to get an easy read on the novelist. But the novelist is something of a blank page to her right now, and that surprises her. Unlike others who know the man, Jordan harbors no illusions as to whether or not Castle has it in him to kill. She has learned that any man or woman can find the will to take a life when it comes to their child. It's far easier than some would think.

And unlike others, she also is not taken aback with the possibility that Castle could have carried out whatever "horrible" mutilations occurred on the body – mutilations which have been mentioned repeatedly, but not described in any detail. Knowing the media and their tendency to err on the dramatic side, it could be anything from lacerations on the body to a missing head.

But unlike others, Jordan saw Castle when his daughter was returned. Jordan saw Castle when his mother was tied and gagged in a death trap. Others were there and saw him, yes, but Jordan _saw_ him. And what she saw on those two different occasions tells her that, yeah, this man has it in him. Any of us can snap. We can only take so much.

So, no – she doesn't know whether or not Castle is guilty of whatever he's been accused of, but neither does she just knee-jerk react, thinking that this is impossible to consider him capable of revenge in this fashion.

"Do you think he did it, Jordan?" Agent Avery asks his companion at the break table.

"It's possible," she says aloud, still wondering how probable it might be. "I'd like to think not, but the man did damage his daughter."

Avery nods his head, and then asks the next, inevitable question.

"Are you all right, Jordan? I know he took Jenna, too? What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I'm glad he's dead," she responds, without hesitation, not taking her eyes away from the television monitor.

"And I'm thinking I am heading east," she tells him, after a few more seconds of watching the news feed.

"You just got back, Jordan," he tells her.

"Don't worry, I will be back before Monday," she tells him, finally taking her eyes away from the broadcast, and punching a few keys on her cell phone.

_JORDAN: Are you watching?_

"What about Jenna and –"

"Jenna and Tom will be fine," she says, almost dismissively. "Honestly, I think both are going to feel like I do – glad that the bastard is dead – and more concerned about Castle, and what may or may not be happening there."

She begins typing again on her phone, this time with a different party, and the phone only rings once before her party picks up.

"I assume you are watching the feed?" the voice on the other end says to her, somewhat nonchalantly.

"Yes, I am," Jordan replies. "When are we picking him up and where are we taking him?"

"I'll confirm, but word is tonight, around 11 p.m., in order to avoid another media circus. We've had enough press – good or bad – on this one already."

"That's what I figured. Can you get me in on the detail?"

"Ooooh, I don't know Jordy. You are far too close to –"

"Damn right I am. And this is far too important for me to stand on the sidelines, Paul. This man helped save my daughter."

"Let me see what I can do. Give me ten."

"Okay, thanks Paul."

"Make it twenty," he corrects, and clicks off.

She hangs up, just as a text is coming in from Tom at their home. The surgeon is off duty this weekend, and she will have to make sure he isn't on-call. Her leaving for a day is one thing. Both parents being away from Jenna right now is a non-starter.

_TOM: Yes. Are you heading there?_

She smiles at the connection she and Tom share, still after all of these years. She had thought it cute when she first saw how Kate and Rick shared a similar connection, and marveled at how they fought against it instead of embracing it, reveling in it, and each other, as she and Tom had done. Shaking the thoughts out of her head, she responds.

_JORDAN: Yes, Paul is trying to get me in on the detail. Just until tomorrow."_

She begins typing again, but then stops herself.

"Screw it," she says, deleting the few characters , and deciding to simply call her husband. He picks up on the second ring.

"Don't worry, I've got it on this end," he tells her in way of greeting.

"I know you do, babe. Just don't want to take you for granted."

"I know, and you know that you don't," he tells her, and then pauses. For a few seconds neither says a word, before he continues.

"Do you think –"

"I don't know, Tom. I don't just know. Wouldn't you?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely," he tells her. His tone is harsh, and his words tell him that Jenna is not close by, as he wouldn't use that word around her.

"Well, if he did, I can't let him go down like this," she tells him. "I just can't."

"I know, I know. You have to go. You have your overnight bag there, I assume?" He doesn't really need to ask, as the special federal agent always has a bag at the ready at her office.

"You know that I do."

"Jordy ?" he asks.

"Yeah babe."

He pauses for another second, as if deciding whether to say the words or not - whether to throw the possibility out there into the universe. In the end, he realizes that it's already out there.

"Thank him for me, Jordy," he tells her, and he doesn't see her eyes mist, but he hears it in her voice.

"I will, Tom. I will."

_**Later that night at Kate Beckett's Apartment, 11:15 p.m., March 15, 2012**_

Kate Beckett is still very angry.

She'd been on the road for about three hours, and made it back to the city in near record time, given the traffic. Four plus hours to get out there, three hours to get back – over seven hours in her car, in that traffic, and all for what?

For all of five minutes, that's what!

She has replayed their conversation – if you could call it that – again and again and again during her return trip. For the first hour, she was in tears, on and off, and on the phone – with Jim Beckett, her dad. Because sometimes a girl just needs to talk to her dad.

For that first hour, she feared Richard Castle might really have done this. She has never seen Castle like this. Her first thoughts retreated back over a year ago, after the summer from hell, as she now describes it. That summer apart, after she had broken up – too late – with Tom Demming, while Castle had gone off to his hideaway home with that hideous bitch of an ex-wife of his. When she saw him as he returned to the city that fall, he was standing over a dead body – twice. And both times, he profusely swore his innocence to high heaven and anyone else that would listen.

So yeah, she's seen Richard Castle when he has been falsely accused. She's seen his reaction, and his boisterous proclamation of innocence.

None of that was on display back at the Hamptons this evening.

In thinking about that summer, where she'd lost out on her chance for a summer away with him, it then hits her that she has just gone all the way out to the Hamptons to see one Richard Castle and she still hasn't seen his home out there. Banging her hand on the kitchen counter in frustration, she continues replaying her trip back home. Fortunately, her dad had asked the right questions to cause her to reconsider, and start to accurately recollect her conversation with her now ex-partner.

The sadness she feels as she realizes that he, indeed, is now her _ex-partner_ is almost suffocating. There is no evidence to lead her to believe that he was ever coming back to the 12th – to continue working with her, shadowing her, being inspired by her. Not after the so-called Magic Games, as the media has dubbed them. Idiots.

"_I am probably the least inspiring person in his world right now,"_ she muses to herself, and then shakes the thoughts of self-pity away, recalling her dad's words as she picks up the remote control and turns on the television in the living room of her apartment.

"_What did he say to you, Katie?" _he had asked her.

"_Nothing, really, dad – he didn't say much of anything."_

"_Katie, you're not thinking clearly," _he had told her, and she is grateful that he had chosen to push back on her._ "You have the greatest memory that I know of – you remember spoken words like they are painted on page. Think back – what did he say to you?"_

The irony of his words had stifled her for a few moments, as she recalled words that she had chosen to forget – at least publically with Castle – words that, now out in the open, have created an impossible chasm between the two of them.

Shaking these thoughts away also, she settles in on her revelation during the last couple of hours in the car.

"_It was strange, dad. He asked me what I was doing there. And he called me 'detective'. Not Kate, not Beckett. That's strange for him."_

"_Perhaps he was giving you a message, Katie. You __are__ a detective, and for anyone who might have been close by, listening, there would have been nothing out of the ordinary in hearing that. But for you – you say it is out of the ordinary in how he talks to you. Perhaps he was saying something to you – just for you."_

She had considered her father's sage words, allowing her phenomenal memory to rewind and retrieve the exact words he had spoken to her.

She had just told him she was sorry.

"_We're all sorry, Beckett," _he had told her.

That sounded strange then, and even stranger now. She told him she didn't understand, and his response had almost been as if he were disappointed.

"_Never mind," _he had told her. Then he asked the question, as she looks back on it now.

"_Why are you here, detective?"_

It had been an insane and totally frustrating question to ask. She was obviously there because she cared, because she wanted to make sure he was all right. She wanted to make sure that he knew she believed in him, that she was there to support him. It was a crazy question to ask . . . unless he had an ulterior motive.

Unless he wasn't asking her anything, but was actually telling her something . . . both in the question, and the title he used.

"_Maybe he wasn't asking me why I was there, but actually asking me to ask myself why I was there," _she thinks again to herself. And the use of the word detective? Perhaps that was a subtle way of telling her to read between the lines . . . to detect, for crying out loud.

"_So if I was there to detect, what was it that I was supposed to see,"_ she asks herself again, as she pours herself a glass of red wine_. "What was I supposed to notice? Why was I there,"_ she considers again, now deep in thought. She wonders if she has missed something important. It would not be beyond Richard Castle to drop bread crumbs – but boy, he did not seem himself tonight.

"_Of course he didn't, Kate,"_ she tells herself. "_He's stuck in jail. His baby girl is probably steal dealing with the trauma, and Martha? Cripes, who knows how Martha is taking all of this."_

It is almost pure blind luck that her ears catch the word 'Hamptons' on the television, interrupting her thoughts and causing her to focus on the breaking news now playing on her screen. She slowly walks to the living room, places her glass of wine down on the sofa table, and falls backwards, into a seating position on her soft, exhausted over the day's events. Her eyes focus, as she watches Richard Castle walk out of the police station – and her eyes narrow as she sees who is with him, guiding him.

_**Back at the Police Station at the Hamptons, 11:25 p.m., March 15, 2012**_

"You folks are late," Chief John Brady says, off-handedly, as he rubs his eyes, watching his visitors walk through his doors.

"What, putting in a few extra hours today, Chief?" one of the federal agents asks him.

Chief Brady ignores the jab, instead rising to his feet to greet the three agents who have just walked into his station.

"Wanted to wait a few minutes to see if we could outlast your circus outside," the second agent states, pointing his thumb at the door behind them.

"They are _still_ here?" the Chief asks, incredulously.

"Yes, they are," the third agent responds. "Mind if I have a word with you in private, Chief?" she asks.

"Not at all," he responds, leading her to his office. "You gents can wait here," he tells the two remaining agents, while pulling her into his office after receiving two head nods from the other agents.

"Thanks, Chief . . . Brady," she states, glancing down at his name tag on his light blue uniform shirt. "I'm Special Agent Jordan Shaw, from the FBI. I'm a federal profiler."

The Chief nods his head. "What can I do for you, Agent Shaw?"

"All cards on the table," she begins. "I know your prisoner, personally. My daughter was abducted along with his daughter, by your victim. I want a few words with him before we take him off your hands."

Chief Brady smiles, and today hasn't been one for smiles. "I appreciate the honest approach, Agent Shaw. Haven't been getting a lot of that lately."

"No, I'm sure you haven't, Chief," she replies, tiredly. "It's been a long day, and it's going to be an even longer night. Mind if I talk with him?"

"Go right ahead," he tells her. "Second cell down the hall to the right. He didn't have much to say to the NYPD detective earlier tonight. Maybe you will get more out of him."

"What do you mean?" she asks, now more curious than anything else. She wonders idly if the NYPD detective in question was Kate, but decides she will find out soon enough.

"Never mind, I will find out. Has he said anything incriminating?" she asks, as an after-thought, hoping the answer will be a 'no'.

"Hasn't said much of anything," he gives her. "Hasn't been screaming about his innocence, or bragging about his guilt, either. Nothing at all."

"Has he lawyered up?" she asks.

"Hasn't even asked for one, Agent Shaw." He notices her surprised expression, and continues. "Yeah, that surprised me, also."

"_Curious,"_ she thinks to herself. As much as she knows of Richard Castle, she would expect him to be shouting his innocence, if in fact he is innocent. And if he is guilty, Richard Castle knows enough about due process to make sure that his attorneys become visible, and quickly. That neither option is playing out is just that. Curious.

Those are her thoughts as she walks down the hallway toward the second cell on the right, where her friend is being held.

For his part, Richard Castle hears her walking towards his cell, and for a moment, fears it is a second visit from Kate Beckett. He is tired, he is sleepy, and he just isn't ready for round two with her just yet. He has lost track of time, since they took his watch, cell phone, all personal belongings. Fortunately, Chief Brady has been friendly, and warned him that the feds were coming in much later in the evening to get him, trying to avoid the media circus outside. He had told the writer to get a few hours of sleep.

"You're going to need it, Mr. Castle," he had told him. "Not sure what their plans are for you tonight, but trust me, you don't sound like you are the most popular person with them right now."

"I suspect I'm not," Castle had allowed himself to say, and then clammed back up after thanking the Chief.

So now, he is not sure what time it is, or who it is approaching him. But it is only one set of footsteps, and if it were the Feds coming for him, he'd likely hear three or four, including the Chief. For a moment, his heart races with a worst-case scenario.

"_Oh God, please don't let it be someone breaking me out of here,"_ he thinks to himself. That certainly isn't in any contingencies that he and Jackson Hunt have accounted for.

Seconds later, he hears a very familiar voice, one that causes him to bolt upright faster than he intends.

"Rick?"

"Jordan?" he responds, clearly surprised, and moves to his feet and walks toward the cell door bars. He places his hands on the vertical bars, and allows his head to fall tiredly to the cold iron that separates them, and closes his eyes.

"_Okay, I didn't see this one coming,"_ he thinks, as he opens his eyes, gazing into the eyes of his friend, through the bars a few inches below him.

"What are you doing here, Jordan?" he asks. His voice is non-committal, thankfully. Not showing happiness, not showing indifference. But his eyes betray him, and she notices it right away.

"Oh, I was just in the area, wanted to stop by and say hello," she smiles, and he returns her smile. It's his first smile in days, it seems. Suddenly in these next few seconds, everything comes crashing down on him, and the burden he carries is clearly visible to her. His legs briefly falter, and he grabs hold of the bars more tightly. He idly wonders how long he can really keep this up. Hell, it's only night number one, and he's already tired of the charade. But then he considers Alexis. He sees her face. In those seconds, his resolves returns, and he is strengthened by her image.

None of this internal battle, however, is lost on the profiler. She has caught the all-to-brief softness in the eyes, the brief falter as his legs almost give out, then watched him recover, and retreat. She nods her head, her smile waning, but still somewhat present, and she makes her decision right then and there, regarding his potential guilt or innocence.

"I don't know what the game is you're playing, Rick," she says softly, knowing that cameras are recording everything. "But I will allow it, and play along for now."

His eyes startle back to hers, and she knows for certain now. She places her hands along the bars, just under his. He moves his hands down, grabbing hers, once again let's his head rest on the bars.

"I . . . I . . ." he begins softly, but is interrupted.

"Not here," she says softly, but firmly, willing him to look at her, which he finally does.

"Do you understand me?" she asks, and is satisfied when he nods his head.

"Play the game with me, Jordan?" he asks, and her heart tugs, understanding that for some reason that she cannot possibly fathom, he is allowing himself to take the fall for someone else.

"Is everyone safe?" she asks him, thinking quickly and what possibilities could invoke this type of sacrifice.

"They will be," he says softly, and she nods in final understanding. "We have much to talk about," she says, before pulling away.

"Chief, we are ready to go now," she says aloud, toward the Chief's office.

Seconds later, the Chief is walking down the hallway, with her two fellow agents in tow. Both agents know the relationship, the recent history that their fellow agent has with the prisoner in the cell ahead of them. The discussion on the helicopter ride to the Hamptons was quick, but detailed. Jordan's reputation within the agency begins with her honesty and transparency. That has served her well with her peers and superiors.

She doesn't think he's guilty, and she has told them this on the flight here. She has also admitted to them that she doesn't rule it out, given the nature of the crime against his family. Now, as always, she chooses the honest approach, knowing that both agents – both family men – will understand. She tells them she may need some private time with him, conversation wise, and both agree to keep their headsets on for the return flight into the city, to give them that privacy. They trust Jordan enough to know that she will share anything important with them.

Regardless, the men are nevertheless imposing figures – the FBI is taking no chance of a repeat fiasco on this transport, and Jordan is thankful – yet again this evening – that Paul was able to get her into this detail. It was not – he has told her – an easy call for him to sell. It was one that has left him highly, highly obligated to someone at the agency, a position he doesn't appreciate.

Chief Brady tries a little humor as he unlocks Castle's cell door.

"I hope you enjoyed your stay at our resort, Mr. Castle," and he is greeting with a small smile from the writer, the first given to him since his incarceration.

"My compliments for the turn-down service," Castle tells him, then retreats quickly back under hooded eyes. The transformation is so abrupt, that everyone – even the FBI profiler – is taken aback somewhat.

They take a few more steps, and the Chief opens the door leading outside. Yeah, sure enough, the incoming helicopter had alerting the media, which somehow had been hiding somewhere. But now they are out in full force again, and the lights are set up, glaring brightly at the doorway where the Chief now stands.

"A chopper?" the Chief asks, questioningly.

"If someone is going to escape this time, it's going to be a long way down," the taller of the agents smirks.

The Chief nods, and stands out of the way, allowing his guest to leave his building.

"You ready for this," Jordan asks him as they approach the doorway, within sight of the media outside.

"Are you?" Castle says, his voice hard and cold. Again, she is stunned at the transformation, and in truth would begin to reconsider her assessment had she not stared into her his face, into his eyes.

"_He may be playing them, but he won't lie to me,"_ she tells herself. _"But why, for the love of God . . ."_

An agent leads them through the crowd to the chopper, while Jordan grabs his arm, leading him along, followed by the third agent. His hands flop limply in front of him, shackled by the handcuffs Jordan has placed on him.

"Mr. Castle, did you do it?"

"Mr. Castle, can you make a quick statement?"

"Mr. Castle!"

The shouts, the requests are fired rapidly and loudly at the four retreating figures, and Jordan is thankful that Agent Harrison Talbert clears a path for them – otherwise this could easily get dicey.

For his part, Richard Castle remains stoic, his head up, his eyes straight ahead, zoned in on the helicopter, never glancing in either direction. They reach the chopper within twenty to thirty seconds, and Castle feels himself roughly pushed down, forcing him to bend to get into the aircraft.

"Apologies," he hears the agent tell him. He simply nods in response. A second later, Agent Jordan Shaw is sitting beside him, closing the chopper doors. Her partners are both in the front seats ahead of them, and suddenly the aircraft lifts off, with an immediate bank and rises off. Within seconds, Castle finds himself staring out the window at the waters below as the chopper banks, heading toward the city. He is wrestled from his reverie, feeling hands on his. Suddenly he cuffs are off, and he looks down at his free hands, and rubs feeling back into them.

"Tom like those?" he asks, and for just a few seconds, Jordan Shaw sees the playful novelist she has seen in the past.

"He doesn't mind," she chuckles.

Neither says a word for a few seconds, as if they both realize the importance of these little reprieves for the writer. But it's going to be a quick flight – and she has lots of questions. She points to the two agents facing the windshield in front of them, and points to their headsets firmly around their ears.

"They've given us some privacy, Rick," she says, and he nods his head appreciatively.

"So talk to me – what's going on here?"


	9. Chapter 9

**The Long Game: Chapter 9**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**On the FBI Helicopter leaving the Hamptons, 11:40 p.m., March 15, 2012**_

"Where do I start?" Richard Castle asks the FBI profiler.

"You can start with why you don't seem too fazed to be in FBI custody under suspicion of murder, for one," Special Agent Jordan Shaw tells him. "You're a smart man, so I know you understand how serious this is, Rick."

Her only answer is a nod of the head from the writer, her friend.

Over the past few weeks, a special kinship has developed – not only between Richard Castle and Jordan Shaw – but between the writer and her entire family. Between his daughter and her daughter. Together, they have undertaken an undesired, unplanned journey together. One of terror and fear, and now hope and healing.

Truth be told, one Detective Beckett should be a part of this as well. Her father was taken, her therapist tortured. All a part of an elaborate game by a madman now dead. A madman killed by Castle's father.

While Castle stood by and watched.

But the detective's lie – more specifically – the length of the detective's lie is a thorn, a wound that just isn't healing with the writer. He is no stranger to lies. Sometimes you tell a lie to protect someone. Sometimes you tell a lie out of fear. Sometimes you tell a lie to gain an advantage. He knows he harbors a lie of sorts – withholding information – and he knows why he has withheld information from the detective. His move protects her. His move prevents her from acting irrationally. His move prevents her from putting more of them in danger, including herself.

Her lie? He doesn't know the reason, but this he _does_ know. No one has been protected by her lie, except maybe herself. And that wound festers. Every day for the past few weeks he has tried to surgically remove the offending thorn, and each time the thorn is out, another seems to grow, and dig deeper into the wound, taking root. There is an anger with each surgical extraction, an anger that he cannot shake. This worries him, because he is generally a very forgiving man. Probably to a fault, to his dismay.

So that fact that he can't seem to embrace forgiveness in her case only serves to anger him more – he holds her responsible for the lie, for the pain the lie has caused. That is logical and understandable. He also holds her responsible for his anger with himself for not being able to forgive and move on. That is illogical and unfair. And he knows this.

"_It all comes out in the wash,"_ his mother had told him when he was a young boy caught in a lie, teaching him a lesson in why a lie eventually comes out of the darkness, to light. Well, he is stuck in the wash, on spin cycle. He can't get out. It frustrates him to no end.

Then his long-estranged, never-before-met father shows up and rocks his world.

"I know you, Rick," Jordan tells him, getting his attention again. "Not the kind of knowing that comes from years and years of friendship, I grant you that. But I've been in the fire with you, Rick. The kind of fire you don't think you're going to walk away from."

He glances at her, and although he doesn't move, his eyes agree with her.

"I know _who_ you are," she tells him, "and you are no murderer. Yet here you sit, perfectly content to take the blame for something you are not responsible for."

He turns to face her now, as they sit side-by-side.

"Thank you for taking the cuffs off," he tells her, and she nods her head. He's ready to talk. Just shut up and let what comes out come out.

"What if I _am_ responsible, Jordan?" he asks her, and she is unable to keep the look of surprise off her face.

"That's damn near a confession, Rick," she tells him, quickly, and glances toward the front seat, making sure her two companion agents haven't taken their headsets off. If they hear something like this, it is over before it begins.

"Just shut up," she says emphatically. "Don't say another word. Wait until we get you settled, and you can bring in the high-priced attorney that I know you have available and on-call."

She is trying to protect him now. She wanted to get him talking to simply confirm what she already knows in her heart: that he is innocent, and being railroaded by someone. The last thing she expected was an expression of guilt.

"_Or is it?"_ she wonders to herself. After all, 'responsible' can mean many things. And she is talking to an author, a man whose command of the English language far exceeds her journeyman levels. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he is still talking.

"I am keeping my family safe, Jordan. That's all."

She shakes her head, in complete disagreement. She has to steer this in a different direction.

"But not like this, Rick. Not by –"

"But what if I am responsible?" he repeats again, asks again. She doesn't understand, and so she pushes back yet again.

"You're not listening to me. You can't –"

"No," he interrupts, softly. "_You're_ not listening. Jordan. _What if_ I am responsible?"

The inflection in his voice, the emphasis on those two words finally hits her – she begins to see the bread crumbs he is dropping for her, and she bends to pick them up.

He is doing this to keep his family safe. Safe from who?

"Rick, if something is going on, we could put your family into protective custody. You know this. We could –"

"Jordan," he interrupts again. "The type of people I am at war with can take _your daughter_ – and you are an FBI special agent – but they can take_ her_ anytime they please, so forgive me if I am not buying what you're selling here."

He sees the concern in her face, and truly hates to use this card on her so close to her actually getting her daughter back. But he has to make her understand. Jackson Hunt has warned him that their mutual enemy had to believe that he was involved. Further, Hunt has told him that the NYPD – especially one Kate Beckett and her team of detectives – the NYPD has to believe him to be involved.

Special Agent Jordan Shaw may different, but then again she may not. Who's to say that Bracken doesn't have his tentacles inside the Agency. Simple logic tells him that he probably _does_ have allies and spies within pretty much any government agency. So for now, he's got to tread lightly here. Even with a woman that he only now realizes – in this moment – that he trusts more than anyone outside his immediate family. Because of their mutual shared experience. Because of their budding friendship.

And because she hasn't lied to him. At least not that he knows about.

"Don't you realize how dangerous this game is you're playing?" she asks him.

"There won't be any DNA evidence implicating me," he tells her, drawing yet another incredulous look from the Fed.

"Rick, please . . ."

"There is only circumstantial evidence. And it's not really evidence. It's more like information," he says, and finally turns his head away from her. "They can't hold me long, and by the time I am out, my message will have been delivered."

"What message?" she asks. "Message to who, Rick?"

"I'd rather keep you out of this," he responds.

"Why?" she asks, now exasperated and frustrated, unable to keep from banging him on his shoulder.

"Because of Jenna," he tells her, and that shuts her up. He sees the look in her eyes, the fear and concern she tries to hide, but it is far too soon, her wound far too fresh for her to hide the concern for her only child.

"Look Jordan – I know you have far more experience than I do with criminals and nutjobs. But I do have a few experiences of my own. Recent ones," he tells her, and lets that digest with her for a few seconds.

"My experiences have taught me that there are people in this world that even you, even your FBI cannot protect me or my family against. So no disrespect to you, Jordan, but I've chosen a different path this time. It was pure dumb luck we got our daughters back, got my mother back . . . got Jim back."

He wills his thoughts to stay in the present, ignoring the pull that wants him, that urges him. He leans his head against the back seat of the chopper, and closes his eyes, listening to the repetitive hum of the blades. Somehow, it is a calming influence, it reasons with him.

"Look," he begins again, more gently this time. "Dunn is dead. That's all you need to know. Jenna is safe. Alexis is safe. But there are people out there that make Dunn look like a rank amateur. Those people have me – they have my family, they have Kate, and Javi and Kevin Ryan all in their crosshairs, and none of them know this. I don't expect you to understand, but what I am doing protects them."

"You don't need to do this alone, whatever 'this' is," she tells him. "You can tell them, you can –"

He laughs – and not the chuckling kind. He literally burst out in laughter, and she is taken aback with his response. For him, it is a release of sorts, leaking out all of the stress and tension he has held in for the past couple of days.

"You don't know Kate Beckett, Jordan," he tells her, still laughing. "If I even _insinuate_ to that woman that someone is after her – Pow! - she is gone – off on some Don Quixote quest that puts everyone in her life in danger – and she will be totally oblivious to it. There would be so much collateral damage lying around her and all she would care about his her mission, I promise you that, Jordan."

The words are harsh, and the fact that they are spoken with laughter is all the more disarming, all the more frightening.

"How does what you are doing protect them?" she asks. It's the only question she can think of at the moment.

"Because it tells my enemy that I am a man to be reckoned with."

They remain quiet for the next few moments, as both are now lost in their thoughts. Jordan is still trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together – and she is doing so without the benefit of a picture on the box. All she has are pieces – she doesn't even know what the finished product is supposed to look like. An impossible task.

"You know," she begins, "I don't believe you did this, Castle." She's changing tactics now. She is using his last name. For the next few minutes, they are not friends. She's going to treat him like the suspect he is – perhaps she will get somewhere this time.

"I don't think you did this," she repeats. "I really don't. But I have to say, it's getting harder and harder to see you as an innocent man, the more you talk."

"Good," he says, again surprising her. "Because if you wonder, then everyone will wonder. The media will wonder. Beckett will wonder. I need that."

"And you are willing to spend the rest of your life in jail over this," she states, half asking the question, half throwing the concept out there to see his response.

"If it guarantees my family is safe – yes I am."

There is no hesitation in his answer. So she finally gives in, and asks the question she had promised herself on the ride out to the Hamptons that she wouldn't ask, wouldn't even entertain.

"Did you do it?"

Richard Castle simply stares at her, and she cannot help but flinch as she sees the veil return, his eyes becoming hooded and guarded. She is saved by the ping on her mobile phone, indicating an incoming text.

"_Probably from Paul, making sure nothing has gone screwy,"_ she thinks to herself. She is wrong, and her eyebrows rise as she sees the incoming text. She elbows Castle in the arm, to get his attention, and watches him glance down at her phone's screen. He shows no emotion. Dammit.

_KATE: What are you doing? Saw you on TV_

Jordan again looks to Castle for his thoughts – advice, concerns – anything. His face remains a blank slate, and so she begins typing.

_JORDAN: Escorting Castle to federal holding_

The response is immediate.

_KATE: Where?_

Jordan frowns, knowing that the detective should know better.

_JORDAN: Classified. You know that_

She waits a few seconds for the response she knows is coming. She doesn't have to wait long for the question she knows Kate is dying to ask. Well, one of two questions.

_KATE: Why are you there?_

_JORDAN: Why aren't you?_

It's probably not a fair question to ask, but then again, Richard Castle did tell her that Kate had been there in the Hamptons at the jail to visit him earlier in the day. She had idly wondered why the detective had left, why she hadn't stayed. Now her wonder has turned into downright curiosity.

_KATE: He told me to leave_

Jordan half smirks and half frowns, staring at the words on her screen. She glances at Castle, and sees that he is reading their exchange. Yet he remains silent, guarded. He is in full retreat.

_JORDAN: And you listened to him?_

She feels Richard Castle smile next to her, she can feel the tension ease off of him just slightly as he reads her response to the detective. It causes her to smile as well. But only for a brief instant, and then her frown returns.

"_Seriously, she listened to him?"_ she thinks to herself.

_KATE: I had to leave_

Now Jordan's frown increases, as she quickly shakes her head a few times, trying to make sense of this.

_JORDAN: Why? You have a hot date or something?_

It's a jab, she admits. But she also is curious what could have been more important than staying with her friend, her partner – even if, for now, he is an ex-partner.

_KATE: What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

Jordan Shaw is tired. It's been a long day, and a longer night. She will call Kate Beckett a little later. Maybe later tonight, maybe in the morning. But right now, she has a prisoner in her custody and she still has a few more questions for him.

_JORDAN: Nothing, Kate. Figure it out_

She puts her phone away, as if Kate Beckett can see that the conversation is over. She glances at Castle, who had been staring at the messages on her phone before glancing away. Still nothing. She stares at him for a few more seconds, before looking away herself.

"_What are you doing, Richard Castle?"_ she wonders to herself, starting to review their conversation, trying to decide where to pick it up again, when her phone pings again. She sighs, pulling it back out of her pocket.

_KATE: Jordan, I am worried_

Jordan's response is typed out and sent before she can even think.

_JORDAN: You should be. So am I_

She knows that Castle has said that it is important that Kate believe he is involved. Okay, she will play along. She owes him this much, even if she doesn't agree. At least for now. She knows that, in his own coded, guarded way, he has pulled the curtain back for her, just a bit. But no way is she going to let this man go down. Her phone pings.

_KATE: You think he did it?_

Jordan stares at the message for a few seconds, before glancing at Castle. He is staring out the window, at the buildings below. The chopper has begun to bank a bit, and Jordan glances out her window. They are close now. They'll be on the ground soon.

"Rick," she calls him, touching his arm to get his attention. He turns to her and she holds her phone out to him, so he can read the last messages.

"Your call, Rick," she tells him, giving him her phone. He scrolls back through a couple of their messages, getting the gist of their conversation. At one point he smiles, and she knows what he has just read. But the smile is short-lived, and soon enough he hands her phone back to her.

For a split second, she sees the worry in his eyes, but it is so brief that had she not been staring at him as he read the messages, she'd have missed it. Quickly it is replaced by those hard, cold eyes, and a subtle nod of the head follows.

"You're sure?" she asks him, and when she gets no further response, she looks down at her phone and begins typing.

"_Here goes nothing,"_ she thinks to herself, praying that she is doing the right thing.

_JORDAN: Yes_

_**Senator William Bracken's Home in Columbia Heights, Washington, D.C., 12:45 a.m., March 16, 2012**_

Senator William Bracken glances at the wall clock in his study, wiping the moisture of tired eyes from his face. It's almost one o'clock in the morning, and he has an early start to deal with in the morning. But his guest is not someone you just rush out of your house. Even though she has done a number of jobs for him, there are protocols to be followed here. He trusts this person as much as he is going to trust anyone, outside of his wife.

Elena Markov sits in the large, plush chair opposite the Senator and his wife, Elizabeth. Whereas her husband seems to trust the woman who has invaded her home, Liz Bracken is naturally distrustful. It is part of why she and Bracken are such a good fit for each other.

Bracken had tweeted some obscure tweet about an hour ago, ending the tweet with their special code, "#RushinHome". He had figured she would be in contact with him within the day – that was typical unless she was out of town or out of country. She had called less than ten minutes later – by agreement with Jackson Hunt – letting the Senator know she was, indeed, in town.

Feeling no time is better than the present, Bracken had asked her to swing by, which she has obliged. Now, as he stares at this woman, he is again taken in by her gothic beauty. The woman just oozes beauty and danger simultaneously, and he thanks his stars this morning – as he does every single time he calls her into action – that he has never been on the opposite end of one of her missions.

He does not know that the assassin in his home is – and always has been – permanently aligned with the Stone assassin he currently – and rightly – fears. Although she has done numerous jobs for the Senator, and actually has grown to admire than man somewhat, her allegiance is set in stone, so to speak. She admires the Senator. Yes, she knows the kind of man he is – but she also knows the kind of woman she is, herself. Yes, she admires him. And if Hunt tells her, she will kill him in an instant. She idly wonders why he hasn't just asked her to do just that. It wouldn't be the first time either of them had taken out a politician – foreign or domestic.

When the tweet came in earlier, and she had called and set this clandestine meeting in the wee hours of the morning, she had also called Jackson Hunt. Her Stone ally.

"You were right," she says in greeting. "Going to see them now."

"Them?" he asks. "Both of them?"

"I'm just going to have a little fun. He asked if Liz could be there."

"Interesting," Hunt had said.

"It will be," Elena had responded. "I will call you soon," she had said in closing, and hung up the call from her burner phone.

So here Elena sits, in the study of a man she has done favors for in the past, but now at the bidding of a man to whom she owes far more than the Senator could ever know.

"Are we understood, Elena?" Senator Bracken asks her, smiling and friendly – as always. He's learned that you are always friendly with these people. You never let them think you see them as below you. That can be a fatal mistake.

"Yes," she says simply. "She will get this package in the morning."

"_This_ morning?" he questions, knowing that the woman will have to travel for a few hours to get to New York. "You can wait a day, Elena – wait until you've rested-"

"I am fine. You know this Senator," she tells him. "She will receive this in the morning."

"Okay," he responds, standing up. She stands with him, but Elizabeth remains sitting. Interesting. A bit of a breach of protocol, but Elena gets it. The woman is holding her ground – she accepts the assassin in her home, but does not like it. As it is with her husband, Elena grudgingly admires the woman, probably even more so than her husband.

Smiling, and making her mind up, she walks over to the sitting woman. For a moment, Elizabeth Bracken realizes her tiny mistake, and begins to stand quickly, but Elena's hands are on her shoulder, gently pushing her back into her seat. Time for a little fun.

"You worry needlessly, Mrs. Bracken," Elena tells her, whispering in her ear. "You have nothing to fear from me. The power your husband craves cannot be found between a woman's legs," she purrs into her ear.

"He is faithful – one of the few," she finishes, softly biting Elizabeth's ear, and then placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

Senator Bracken watches the one-way exchange, at first with a bit of concern over his wife's breach of protocol. But seeing Elena's softness with his wife, he releases his breath. He's seen the woman in kill mode, twice. He will never forget that look, and is thankful that it is not there tonight.

He has learned to allow Elena her small . . . idiosyncrasies.

He immediately pushes the thought out of his mind. The detective will get the package in the morning. She won't know who it is from. She still has no idea that he was behind her mother's death, behind Roy Montgomery's death, behind her shooting. She has no idea that he was getting ready to break his agreement – one that she evidently still does not know about. He still marvels that the writer had kept that information to himself. He knows the writer was informed – Smith got to him. But he also knows – from his contacts in the NYPD, that Kate Beckett has remained in the dark about him – and his agreement.

Yeah, he has miscalculated the writer – and the writer's father, if his suspicions are correct. So Beckett will get the package, with his personal typewritten note.

He watches Elena stand back up, away from his wife. He walks toward them, as Elizabeth now stands up as well.

"I will walk our guest out, love," he tells Liz, who simply nods her head, and walks out of the study toward their bedroom. She, too, understands Elena's strange ways.

The two – the Senator and the assassin – walk toward his front door, in silence. It is not until his hand is on the doorknob of the front door that he gives a final glance to the box in Elena's hands, and a glance into the eyes of the woman. He holds his hand out. She takes it, smiling.

"Thank you, Elena," he tells her. "I appreciate this – and I appreciate you. I hope you know this."

"I do, Senator," she replies, smiling back, and then departs from her script. There is a question she really is curious about.

"Allow me this curiosity, though," she says, searching his eyes. "Why am I giving her a package? Why am I not giving her a bullet? Or something even more interesting?"

Senator Bracken considers her question. It is a good question, as she doesn't know the back end game being played. At least as far as he knows, she doesn't.

"Let's just say that it is in my best interest – for now – that she remains alive and unharmed," he states, his smile still intact.

She nods, letting him think that his answer is sufficient.

"I will call you later this morning when it is done," she tells him.

"Thank you," he replies, and he watches her walk down his sideway to the street where she makes a quick left turn, walking away from the house. He shuts the door, closing his eyes, and for a brief instant, wonders how his beautiful Russian assassin would fare against the Stone.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Long Game: Chapter 10**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**At Kate Beckett's Apartment Home, 6:33 a.m., Friday March 16, 2012**_

Kate Beckett didn't get much sleep last night. It's been a long time – years in fact – since she has had these kinds of restless, sleepless, nightmarish hours in bed such as last night. For years after her mother's murder, such sleep-deprived and nightmare-driven nights were somewhat common. Not an every-night occurrence, no, but still fairly common nonetheless. In the past few years, however, she has been able to move past those terrible nights.

Oh, the case still haunts her, as it continues to rear its ugly head in her life. Dick Coonan killed in the precinct, before he could tell her anything. Roy Montgomery's sacrifice. She, herself, getting shot. Yeah, this case still bites her in the ass, continuously and when she least expects it. But she's been able to sleep at nights. And she knows why.

Richard Castle.

The writer's self-inclusion into her world has been frustrating, exhilarating, maddening, informative . . . and . . . and . . .

"_Fun,"_ she thinks to herself, as she brushes her teeth, preparing for an early morning at the precinct. The writer has been the reason she has been able to sleep more normally over the past few years. He is the reason she has often gone to sleep with a smile on her face, even after the most gruesome of cases. He is the reason she wakes up – groggily but happily – knowing that on her days in the office, a hot cup of thoughtfulness awaits her.

So the awful irony that he is also the reason that she got literally no sleep last night is not lost on her. With one single, horrific word, Special Agent Jordan Shaw – a woman that Kate Beckett has grown to trust implicitly – has rocked her world asunder.

"_Yes."_

In retrospect, her question – _"Do you think he did it?"_ – was rhetorical. You know how it is – you ask a question, your friend says "no, no, that's not it", and you move on. That's how it was supposed to go. That's what she was supposed to say. In what maniacal, Joker-esque world was Jordan supposed to say "Yeah, Kate, I think he did it"?

"_Yes."_

The answer had haunted her all through the night. It had awakened her, sweating, and driven her to sleep, crying. Then the pattern repeated. All – Night – Long.

She spits the toothpaste-laden water from her mouth, licks her lips, dropping her toothbrush on the sink counter. She sighs, staring at very red and very tired eyes that mock her, and begins running her hairbrush through her hair.

The doorbell ringing – at barely 6:30 / 6:40 in the morning startles her, and she finds herself scrambling into the bedroom for her gun that lies in her nightstand drawer. Perhaps it's the dreams still playing in her mind, or just the reality that no one – absolutely no one – visits her home at this hour – not even Castle at his most obnoxious. Regardless, she moves slowly toward her front door after capturing her sidearm. Reaching the door, she gazes through the peephole, looking at the oblong face of a woman she has never met.

"Who is it?" she asks, loudly, through the door.

"Detective Beckett," comes the reply – the woman stares straight at the small peephole from where she stands, roughly two feet away from the door. It's unnerving, for some reason. "I am tired. Open the door."

There is something about the command this woman carries, about the authority that causes Kate to take a step backward, even with a large wooden door protecting her.

"_These damn dreams,"_ she thinks to herself, as she decides, wisely or unwisely, to open the door, her firearm in hand.

She stares at a woman who looks both exotically beautiful and maddeningly dangerous at the same time. Whether it is years on the police force or just providence, but within seconds Kate realizes that she is standing face-to-face with an assassin, a stone-cold killer. Her first thought is that her unknown, unseen enemy who has killed her mother, killed her mentor, and almost killed her has finally come to finish the job.

She doesn't know how close to the truth, yet far from the truth she is. Elena Markov is an assassin, and she is working for Kate's enemy at the moment. Fortunately – although she will never know it – Kate's safety is guaranteed because of Elena's ultimate loyalty to Jackson Hunt, which supersedes all else.

Kate raises her weapon, taking two quick steps backward, holding it with two hands at eye level with the assassin. She notices a box in the woman's hands. Then she notices the smile on the woman's face. It is the smile of a snake ready to strike.

The strike comes without warning.

The gun to her face not deterring her in the least, Elena rapidly drops to a squat before Kate can even think of pulling the trigger. The Russian's leg sweeps out as she spins beautifully. It happens so quickly, but Kate sees it in slow motion. For all the good it does her. Before she can think, Kate finds herself flying upward in the air. She hangs mid-air for what seems like an eternity. In reality, it is barely a second or two before she lands roughly on the ground. Amazingly, her head doesn't bang itself on the floor. Instead, as Kate flies - first upward, then downward - toward the ground, Elena Markov has launched herself, parallel along the ground, where she slides her left arm outward on the ground. It is within the hook of Elena's elbow that Kate's head lands. With her free right hand, the assassin grabs the gun from Kate's hand, resting the mouth of the weapon under Kate's chin.

"_God, this is it,"_ the youngest female to make detective in the city of New York thinks to herself. She doesn't have even a second to worry, fret, however, as the next thing she feels are two soft lips along her cheek. She smells the musky scent of the woman's perfume. The kiss from the woman is unexpected, and frightening.

"That was fun, detective," Elena purrs in her ear, then runs her lips along Kate's cheek again, all the while leaving the weapon nestled firmly under Kate's jaw. "We really have to do it again sometime."

With that, Elena rapidly withdraws her arm. There's the thud, as Kate's head bangs against the floor roughly. The assassin arches her back and suddenly is in the air and on her feet. She reaches down to the ground, offering a hand to Kate Beckett. Kate stares at the hand for a couple of seconds, regaining her bearings, then sighs and lifts a hand.

Elena pulls her upward on to her feet, and immediately hands her gun back to her, and turns away from the detective. She walks back to the spot on the ground where she had dropped to a squat, and retrieves the box that she laid on the ground. The box she has come to deliver, in person, to the detective.

"_Arrogant bitch,"_ Kate thinks to herself, watching the woman turn her back on her. She rubs the back of her head and walks to the kitchen counter where she lays her gun.

"_Not going to need that,"_ she thinks, and doesn't voice the thought - even in her head – that she probably couldn't even get a shot off against this woman. When she turns around after laying the weapon down, she is face-to-face with the woman again, who has silently but quickly made her way next to Kate in her kitchen.

"This is for you, detective," Elena says softly, as if the two women are ages-old friends. Kate reaches out with steady hands – she forces the trembling to stop, as she accepts the box from the assassin. Without a doubt, she is the most disarming and frightening person – man or woman – that Kate Beckett has ever laid eyes on. And that is saying something.

"What is this?" Kate asks, knowing that she is expected to open the box, here and now. If not, well, she wouldn't have received the personal attention of a personal delivery.

"Open it, so we both will know," Elena responds, still smiling, still snake-like. This time, Kate can't hide the shudder that rocks her body. Elena sees it also, and nods her head, imperceptibly. She is sizing the woman up. Who knows – one day she may have the supreme honor and responsibility of dispatching the detective.

Kate mentally chides herself for showing weakness. Somehow, she realizes that the woman recognizes it, which makes it all the worse.

"You know," Kate begins, staring at the box while trying to regain her footing, her composure, in her own home, "I've had a tough night, and now a complete stranger comes into my house and assaults me. You do know that it is a felony to assault a police officer," Kate smiles, starting to regain her confidence.

Elena smiles as well, admiring the quickness in which the detective recovers. _"Yes, she would be interesting . . . in so many ways," _the woman thinks to herself, as she responds.

"Let's just say, detective, that I am of position – and _in_ position, I might add – to do exactly that if I so choose," she tells Kate. "Besides – I was merely protecting myself. I rang the doorbell," she continues, still smiling as she raises her forefinger, ticking items off.

"I came bearing gifts," she says, lifting her middle finger, counting off the second item.

"I did not let your head hit the ground, sparing you the indignity of unconsciousness," she says, raising her third finger.

"I greeted you with a kiss on the cheek," she says, raising her pinky finger.

"And I returned your weapon to you, loaded," she says, raising her thumb into the equation.

"In five different ways, I attempted to greet you in a friendly, hospitable manner. The fact that you lost your balance during our greeting was likely due to my clumsiness. Forgive me if I tripped you," she finishes with a smile.

Kate Beckett stares at the woman for a few seconds, before breaking out into laughter. This surreal morning, following her evening of sleeplessness, finally overtakes her. She tosses the box back towards Elena, and as the assassin opens her hands to catch the box, Kate extends her right leg and foot, catching the back of the assassin's calf. Elena briefly loses her balance and in that second, Kate is on her, twisting her around. The box falls, crashing to the floor, while Kate holds the woman in a tight half-nelson.

"I'm sorry. I must have lost my balance," Kate whispers, smiling in the woman's ear.

A second later, a stunned Kate Beckett is airborne yet again. Elena has dropped quickly to the floor, her hands completely vertical, her back arching again. This time the Russian jumps from this position, her legs flipping forward so that they catch around Kate's neck. The assassin now holds herself for a second in a handstand move – her hands on the ground, her calves scissor-locked around Kate's neck. She then flips her legs backward, pulling Beckett with her and sending her airborne. She releases Kate while she is still in the air so as not to break the detective's neck. Kate lands on the floor next to her kitchen counter.

This time, she has hit the ground hard, and for a moment, the air has been knocked out of her. She struggles for her breath, struggling to maintain consciousness.

"No, dammit!" she says softly, but out loud. "Stay awake, Kate," she tells herself – again, out loud.

A full forty-five seconds pass by before Kate can bring herself to her feet. The room has stopped spinning but her head continues to ring softly. Pulling herself to her feet, she turns, looking for the stranger in her home. She finds Elena sitting on her sofa, legs crossed, browsing through a magazine.

"Do make yourself at home," Kate muses while running her hands through her hair. Elena simply smiles at her. She likes this woman, this detective.

"I had to try," Kate tells her, as she approaches the woman who sits on her sofa.

"I am glad that you did," the assassin admits, genuinely. "I have heard much about you, detective. The absence of some form of retaliation on your part would have been very disappointing."

"Kate merely nods, as she sits in the chair across from the sofa, across from the woman, and holds out her hand.

"Let's see this supposed gift of yours," she tells her. Elena hands her the box that she had picked up from the ground for a second time. Kate wastes no time in opening the box. She removes the cover, and successfully stifles a gasp. She stares at the eight severed fingers and two thumbs that sit – still on ice – in the box.

"Upon investigation, you will discover that your gift has no fingerprints," Elena says, and then smiles when she gets the expected response – raised eyebrows and a glance from the corner of her eyes – from the detective.

Kate raises her head, closing her eyes, and takes a deep breath. Opening her eyes as she exhales, she glances down again at the contents of the box, careful not to reach inside and touch anything. But even from here, she can tell that the woman speaks the truth. There are no fingerprints on the digits.

"I assume you know the owner of these," Kate says. It is not a question.

"Yes, I am aware of the identity of their former owner," Elena smiles.

"And I can assume that the fact that these were in your possession somehow absolves Richard Castle, who is being held for the murder of this . . . this . . ."

"While you try to find the words you are missing, let me answer your question, detective," Elena interrupts. "No, this does not necessarily absolve your Mr. Castle of anything. This package was delivered to my client – much as I am delivering it to you."

Kate considers these words, staring at the woman. She quickly decides that this is not a woman who would lie about this – or pretty much anything else, for that matter. She does not need to.

"First, he is not '_my'_ Mr. Castle," Kate begins, and for the first time she sees genuine emotion recorded on Elena Markov's face. She realizes immediately that – with her words – she has made a grave error.

"If he is not – quote – _your_ – unquote – Mr. Castle, then he is a great fool for what he has done for you, detective." She speaks the words 'quote' and 'unquote' with two lifted fingers on each hand. Even this simple act is done with menace.

"I did not mean –" Kate begins, but is once again interrupted.

"What you did or did not mean is irrelevant," Elena tells her, now no longer smiling. "What you _said_ is. Regardless, the fingers you now possess are not the true gift I deliver to you. The _note inside _the lid is my gift to you. It is a gift I now question your worthiness to receive."

With that, the assassin stands, more quickly than Kate can imagine, and walks to Kate's front door. She reaches for the knob and turns it, to let herself out, before she turns back to Kate Beckett to issue her final words.

"Prove yourself worthy of this gift, detective," Elena Markov tells her. Her eyes have seemingly darkened. Impossible, of course, but the illusion stands in Kate's mind. Her smile is gone. In its place is something else entirely.

"If you do not, perhaps we shall meet again . . . under less playful and friendly terms."

The door closes, and for a few seconds, Kate Beckett continues to stare at the closed door, considering the not-so-veiled threat from her visitor. She blinks such thoughts away as she considers the woman's words.

"_The note inside the lid is my gift to you."_

Elena's words replay themselves in Kate's mind, and Kate immediately glances back down at the severed fingers in the box – easily the most gruesome gift she has ever received, both because of _what_ they are and _who_ they once belonged to. She places the box back down on the coffee table in front of her, and picks up the lid. Turning it upside down, she sees the envelope taped inside. She puts the lid down and goes to her bedroom, to her closet, and opens a drawer in the chest of drawers against the wall there. She pulls out a pair of sanitary gloves, and puts them on as she walks back to her kitchen.

She picks up the lid again, and now retrieves the envelope and opens it. She extracts a single page with typewritten words, and begins reading.

_Detective,_

_I don't know how you discovered my plans for you and your friends. Rest assured, I have reconsidered, and I readily admit my error. The agreement that was made to protect your life is now back in effect, permanently, with no conditions attached. I trust that this consideration will be acceptable and that you will have our favorite novelist call off his assassin. With your agreement, detective, our paths should never cross again._

_Respectfully_

The note is unsigned. Regardless, Kate has dropped the single page to the ground, staring at her empty hands. She is rocked to the core by what she has just read. She bends to pick the paper up from the floor, and reads it again.

And yet again, a third time.

Tears form in her eyes. Tears of anger. Tears of anguish. Tears of frustration, betrayal, fear, guilt. And yes, tears of gratefulness.

The questions swirl in her mind, racing like a merry-go-around in an amusement park. Beyond the questions, however, the powerful inferences dominate her thoughts.

She was in danger, but did not know it. The man who had orchestrated previous attempts on her life was getting ready to do so again, but has changed his mind.

These plans that this man had did not stop with her. It included her 'friends'. Which friends? Esposito? Ryan? Castle? Did they include her dad, Jim Beckett? She doesn't have any answers for these questions.

For some reason, her enemy has changed his mind. She wonders what these severed fingers have to do with anything. Immediately her eyes are drawn to a single sentence in the letter.

_The agreement that was made to protect your life is now back in effect, permanently, with no conditions attached. _

There was an agreement in place. An agreement to keep her alive. To protect her. An agreement that – evidently – her unknown and unseen enemy was ready to break. But with whom did he make this agreement? Who is – or was – this agreement with?

The answer is obvious, inescapable, and answered in the next sentence.

_I trust that this consideration will be acceptable and that you will have our favorite novelist call off his assassin._

"Castle," she says out loud.

Somehow, he has – rather, _had _– made a deal. With whom, she doesn't know. How he found this person, she doesn't know. Why he has never said a word of this, she doesn't know. She finds herself clinching her fists, her short fingernails digging into the inside of each hand. She is furious.

The emotion passes within a few seconds, as she continues re-reading the note. Her visitor was correct. It is – indeed – a gift. It begins to answer questions she did not even have. Her eyes fall on the tail end of that sentence.

_. . . and that you will have our favorite novelist call off his assassin._

Castle knows an assassin!?

How is this possible?

Moreover, somehow Castle discovered that whatever agreement he put into place was about to be violated – and his solution was to _dispatch an assassin?_

Not even in one of his admittedly imaginative novels would she believe such a proposition. Yet here it sits, face-to-face with her. It's clear that an assassin has just visited her. That much is abundantly clear. And Richard Castle, a man who she thought she knew quite well – it turns out he has access to an assassin as well. Evidently, she does not know the man as well as she thinks.

She is not sure whether or not this information is comforting or not, and right now, she is leaning towards 'not', when it hits her.

Somehow, Scott Dunn's death was not what it seemed. At all. Somehow his death is tied to all of this. She closes her eyes, her remarkable memory rewinding and replaying her conversation with her unnamed visitor – sans the takedowns, of course.

"_No, this does not necessarily absolve your Mr. Castle of anything. This package was delivered to my client – much as I am delivering it to you."_

She starts ticking off what she now begins to realize. The box of fingers she now stares at, that sit on her coffee table, it seems have been piling up frequent flyer miles. They were delivered to 'her client'. So the assassin delivery woman works for 'the man', her enemy.

"_A letter has been delivered to me, indicating that I should tell Castle to cease and desist with his plans to use an assassin to take out my unknown and unseen enemy,"_ she says to herself, as she unknowingly raises a second finger.

The conclusion she reaches is frightening.

The original package was delivered to her enemy from one Richard Castle. Somehow, for some reason, he is using Scott Dunn – Scott Dunn's death – as a message to her enemy. And her enemy has received this message – this threat – and is now asking her,_ her_, to call Castle off.

Richard Castle is in jail, being held by the feds. She now begins to question exactly what he is being held for. She doesn't believe in coincidences. All of this is tied together somehow, and the feds have swooped in far too quickly for this to not be related.

"I don't care if Dunn _was_ taken from the feds, this is too tidy," she says aloud. She closes her eyes again, this time thinking about the writer. She has – with her lie – created a chasm between the two. And now, it appears that he had his own secret as well. She stands, walking back to her bedroom and reaches down on the nightstand to retrieve her cell phone. She clicks on text messages, and finds the string from her chat with Jordan the previous evening.

_KATE: You think he did it?_

_JORDAN: Yes_

She sits on the side of her bed, staring at the two lines on her phone, and finally breaks down, her body shuddering with sobs.

"Castle," she mutters as tears stream down her face. "What have you done? What have _I_ done?"

It is now clearly obvious that both of them have lied, in one way or another, to each other. This is obvious. The realization, however, that _his_ 'lie', _his_ 'omission' is far more altruistic in nature condemns her. She is angry with him. She is furious that he would make a deal for her, as if she were some 'thing', some 'object' that cannot make her own decisions.

Yet she is equally angry at herself for being angry with him. How can she be angry with someone who has – evidently – risked his life for her own, risked his own family by putting a deal in place with a ruthless enemy? She suddenly wonders if that is the reason that he has stayed with her for the past months – having declared his love to her, yet never seeing it reciprocated. Was it 'the deal' that has kept him here?

Her anger with herself turns to full-fledged guilt when she now considers that he is in jail – he is willingly in jail – for an act that she now realizes goes far beyond revenge. He has sent a message, and the message has been received. The fact that he is not shouting his innocence to the world right now tells her that the trade – his message for his freedom – was one he made willingly.

And with that, the tears come faster.

_**Outside, Two blocks down from Kate Beckett's Apartment Home, 7:05 a.m., Friday March 16, 2012**_

Elena Markov hits SEND on her Twitter account, with the following message.

"_Transaction Complete. #RushinHome"_

Her message to Senator William Bracken will be unmistakable and understood. The package has been delivered, and the Senator will rest more easily – at least for a few days.

Elena now punches up a number to a burner phone, and two rings later, she is rewarded.

"Everything finished?" Jackson Hunt asks her.

"Yes. All is as you suggested it would be," she tells him, then adds almost as an after-thought. "Well, almost all."

"Oh?"

"Later. Let's just say I question whether she is worthy of your son."

"Do tell," he states, and Elena cannot tell what is going on in her friend's mind. It is not often that this occurs.

"We can talk later," she says, breaking into his thoughts.

"Yes – I would like that," and she hears and feels the smile he gives her. She returns it.

"As would I," she tells him. "I am checking in and will await your call."

She clicks off without waiting for a goodbye from her friend. She adjusts the blonde wig she now wears. She had left her bag at the door, outside Kate's apartment. No one bothers a small duffle bag, she has learned. In the elevator, she had quickly placed the hazel green contacts in each eye, and put the wig on her head, before depressing the down button that took her back to the street.

Now, she walks into the hotel and saunters to the check-in counter. Giving false credentials, of course, she checks in under the name Lana Markson. It is an alias she often uses when she opts for the blonde persona. Within minutes, she has her key and is on the elevator on the way up to the suite on the 40th floor, which will be her home for the next few weeks while the man she trusts with her life executes the next few phases of his game.

She smiles, anticipating the role he will ask her to play next. But for now, she can use a few hours of sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Long Game: Chapter 11**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**At Kate Beckett's Apartment Home, 7:25 a.m., Friday March 16, 2012**_

She leaves small watery footprints on the marble floor as she semi-jogs from the shower tub in the hotel restroom to her cell phone that she left on the nightstand next to her bed. The hotel room is cold this morning, all but demanding the hot shower she has just enjoyed. She heard her phone ringing within seconds of turning the invigorating hot jet stream off. Now, with your typical white hotel towel wrapped around her torso, and her hair dripping wet, Jordan Shaw picks up her phone and hits ANSWER. She's already seen the Caller ID, and is surprised the call didn't come sooner.

As in 'last night' sooner.

"Hey Beckett," she answers. "You literally – and I do mean literally – caught me stepping out of the shower."

"Sorry about that Jordan," Kate tells her. "I can call back if you want."

"No, that's all right," Jordan tells her. "Just know that I am dripping wet, trying to dry off and so this call is on speaker. If that's not wise, then yeah, let me call you back."

"Probably a good idea," Kate tells her, which immediately gets Jordan's curiosity revved up this morning. "I'll wait for your call," Kate adds.

"Give me fifteen," Jordan tells her, as she disconnects the call, dropping her towel away to start drying off. It was a long night last night, transferring Castle from the Hamptons, and Jordan is actually surprised that her internal clock still woke her up at 6:45. She stayed in bed, wrapped in the thin bedding you'd associate with hotels, until finally the cold proved too much. She had stayed in the shower for almost twenty minutes, letting the hot water beat down on her, warming her, massaging her tired muscles.

She walks back to the bathroom as she towels herself off, grabbing a second towel and wrapping her hair, getting it off her shoulders. Minutes later, her body dry, she finds herself standing back at the small desk in the room, the hotel-supplied hair dryer plugged into the dual power jack there, watching the morning news on CNN as she dries her hair. She is only somewhat surprised that the news this morning is still talking about the transfer of a certain high-profile, best-selling author from a small Hampton's town jail cell to an undetermined Federal holding tank.

Jordan checks her watch. It is 7:35 and counting. Her flight back to Chicago isn't until 3pm today. She gave herself enough time, just in case things got interesting. Instead, thankfully, everything was pretty straight-forward last night. She had delivered Richard Castle to the federal building, where they had landed on the roof and immediately taken the elevator down to the garage. After waiting a full thirty minutes – an attempt to throw off any media outlets that may have seen the chopper land – the SUV carrying Richard Castle, Jordan Shaw and two other federal agents rumbled out of the garage.

The SUV had darkened back seat windows and rear windows, with a partition dividing the front seat from the back seat. Completely confined in the back seat, Richard Castle had no idea where he was being taken. Roughly fifteen minutes later they arrived at another garage, where Castle was hustled into a waiting elevator and then rushed up to the 4th floor. There he was processed in, and put into a single cell by himself.

Jordan was stopped at the processing point, split apart from the writer without even an opportunity to say goodbye. Nonplussed, she had already expected something of the sort, deciding to check in with their new prisoner in the morning.

Now, ten minutes later, her hair dry, she sits at the desk with a small compact mirror, applying the morning's make up. Her Bluetooth earpiece in place, she places the call to Kate and then puts the phone down, now focused entirely on the face reflected back in the small mirror in her hand.

"Hey Jordan," Kate greets her.

"Hey yourself, detective," Jordan replies. "Sorry I didn't call last night, but it was a busy night."

"No matter," Kate tells her, "it was a busy _morning_ here on my end."

"Is that so?" Jordan asks, now glancing instinctively at the phone for no reason. "What's up now?"

"I had a visitor this morning. The kind of visitor you normally don't survive."

Jordan puts her mirror down momentarily, standing up and immediately pacing the small hotel room. "Is that so?" she asks.

"I have to tell you, coming face to face with a professional assassin – and I don't mean the sniper, gun-carrying kind – I mean the hand-to-hand, I'm a cat and you are my toy kind – that will wake you up in the morning, let me tell you," Kate half smiles.

"So – no offense, Kate – but how is it that you and I are talking then?" Jordan asks.

"None taken," Beckett responds. "Fortunately, she was here just to deliver a message."

"She?" Jordan asks, now fully intrigued.

"Yep, 'she'. And a pretty badass 'she' at that," Kate admits, as she tells her friend about the very one-sided tussle that briefly ensued – all instigated by Kate, but clearly finished by her opponent.

"You've never seen her before?" Jordan asks.

"Nope. Complete stranger to me, although she seemed to know a bit about me," Kate offers.

"Interesting. Do you think you could describe her enough to a sketch artist?"

"Definitely. I suspect that would be a waste of time, though," Kate adds. "She seemed to be affiliated."

"Ours?"

"God, I hope so," Kate laughs, which draws her friend into a small chuckle as well. "I have to tell you, Jordan, I don't have any illusions about surviving a real encounter with that one."

"I will get one of our sketch artists over to you this morning," Jordan tells her. "I know you have your own artists, but I'd like to get this into our database. Something tells me that you aren't going to find anything in yours."

"You're probably right about that," Kate tells her, then quickly changes topics. "But back to her message."

"Yes, you mentioned she was there to deliver a message . . ." Jordan says, trailing off.

"She gave me a box of fingers," Kate says nonchalantly. She has to smile at the few seconds of silence that follows from Jordan, before Jordan finally speaks.

"I assume you aren't talking about chocolate fingers, or chicken fingers . . ." she says with a chuckle, causing Kate to chuckle as well. She is reminded of how much she really enjoys this woman and her friendship.

"No, unfortunately these are the human variety," Kate tells her.

"Are?" Jordan asks, now sitting back down and applying her makeup again.

"Yes, present tense. As in I have them here with me now."

"That's an interesting gift," Jordan offers.

"No fingerprints," Kate tells her, and once again, Jordan places her makeup kit down on the desk.

"Dunn."

"That's my guess as well," Kate says softly. "There's more, though. When she gave the box to me, and I realized what I was looking at, my first thought was 'hey, this proves Castle didn't do this because someone else is delivering this to me – so they probably did this."

"And even if –" Jordan stops, as she hears the displeasure in Kate's voice. "Stay with me, Beckett," she says, using her last name for emphasis, to focus her friend. "_Even if_ Castle did do it, what benefit is there in sending you a package like that, incriminating himself?"

"That's what I thought as well," Kate tells her, calming herself a bit. "But then she – my visitor – mentioned that this package was sent to her, with instructions to share it with me."

Jordan is quiet at this information, and neither woman says anything for a few seconds. Kate finally breaks the silence.

"I know, right . . . I'm trying to figure this one out. And there was a letter also."

"Really?" Jordan states – not as a question. "Read it to me," she tells the detective. Her tone is more authoritative than she intends, but fortunately Kate is not in a hierarchical mood this morning. Seconds later, the detective is reading the typewritten note delivered to her within that past hour.

_Detective,_

_I don't know how you discovered my plans for you and your friends. Rest assured, I have reconsidered, and I readily admit my error. The agreement that was made to protect your life is now back in effect, permanently, with no conditions attached. I trust that this consideration will be acceptable and that you will have our favorite novelist call off his assassin. With your agreement, detective, our paths should never cross again._

_Respectfully_

Kate puts the letter down, waiting for Jordan's response. None comes.

"Jordan?"

"Processing," is the only response the Federal profiler gives her.

While Kate may have questions about this development, Jordan Shaw does not. She has the benefit of roughly twenty minutes spent in a helicopter with Richard Castle, and right now she is putting this new information together with her brief conversation with Castle.

He had told her about an unseen, unnamed enemy he was facing. He had told her that this enemy made Scott Dunn look like an amateur, and this enemy now had Kate Beckett in his crosshairs. Scratch that - not only Kate, but her friends, her family as well. Now Kate is – without realizing it – telling her that this enemy of Castle's has sent a letter to her, delivered personally by what appeared to be an assassin.

"Your thoughts, detective?" Jordan finally asks.

"Well, obviously someone has it in for me," Kate tells her. "I can only assume this is the same person who killed my mother, who killed Roy Montgomery. Who had me shot last Spring."

This follows along the same lines of thinking that Shaw has as well.

"That's my first take, also," Jordan tells her. "What else?"

"Castle told me – the day we captured Scott Dunn and Castle left the city – he told me that he had kept a secret from me. That he'd made a deal for my life. I got mad at him about it, and really hadn't put two and two together until this morning. When he said he made a deal for my life, I guess he wasn't talking about a deal with an assassin or a triggerman. He meant he had somehow found out who was pulling the strings."

"Or," Jordan counters, "someone who might be connected to the string-puller, as you call him."

"True," Kate agrees. "Regardless, I now know that he wasn't speaking metaphorically, and he wasn't exaggerating. Not that I thought he was, but when he told me, I was so angry I wasn't thinking straight and –"

"You were angry?" Jordan repeats, questioningly. "Why would you be angry if someone has just saved your life?"

"Because it's my . . ."

Suddenly, Kate stops talking, not completing the thought she was voicing. Somehow, after a little bit of time, just hearing the words begin to come out of her mouth tells her how incredibly stupid her anger had been, how poorly she had reacted. She had gotten upset with Castle for making a deal for her life, as if she were some helpless object. Well, now, as she stares at the ten dismembered fingers, as she recounts her totally ineffectual, one-sided throttling at the hands of an assassin that was toying with her . . . she realizes that 'helpless' is precisely what she has been to this unseen enemy. Castle stepped out – against this caliber of enemy – and made a deal to keep her alive . . . and her first reaction to him had been . . . anger?

Jordan, for her part, is deep in thought herself, now assessing the reaction she has just witnessed – albeit over the phone. She is now remembering why Castle had told her that he couldn't come clean with Beckett about all of this. He had said she would go off, half-cocked, and get them all killed. Her focus would be self-motivated, toward her mission. His chilling comment about her being oblivious to the potential collateral damage has stayed with Jordan. She doesn't want Tom or Jenna becoming collateral damage. And Kate's words, although cut off by her own choice –

_Because it's my . . ._

The most natural conclusion to that sentence is the word 'life'. And _that_ mindset, _that_ paradigm is exactly what Castle had warned her about.

Jordan also recalls Castle's statement that the media had to see him as guilty. That Kate had to see him as guilty, also. Any thoughts the profiler had of sharing this information with Kate have now disappeared. Still, the question has to be asked: Why would the media, everyone – including Kate – need to see him as guilty? The answer comes to her quickly.

He told her that his enemy needs to see him as quote – a man to be reckoned with - unquote. The media and Kate need to believe him to be guilty because his enemy will be monitoring both. The media will print and broadcast their opinion. And it is likely that his enemy – whoever he or she is – likely has ears at the 12th. So Kate has to seem convinced as well.

So, much as it pains her, and despite what she badly wants to tell the detective, Jordan Shaw decides in this moment to keep the trust that Richard Castle has bestowed upon her. She will allow the detective – her friend – to wonder. She will allow Kate to question Castle's innocence. An assassin has just visited her, and a gruesome gift has been handed to her. So far, this lines up entirely with how Castle has portrayed things.

She will, she decides however, get this message back to Castle, and this morning as quickly as possible. Kate has heard from his enemy, in a very personal way, and the message has been received. She wonders what Castle's next move will be. If he is – indeed – merely playing a part, then he cannot all of the sudden start proclaiming his innocence. He's going to have to play the role a while longer. That means he stays in jail. That means a likely arraignment within the next day or so. Will they release him on bond? And if they do, does he stay or does he bolt?

"I will see Castle this morning," Jordan finally tells Kate. "I have an afternoon flight to Chicago, but will see him before I leave."

"You have to take me with you, Jordan," Kate begins, but her friend cuts her off.

"I can't, Kate. You know this –"

"I have to see him, Jordan, I have to tell him –"

"I can't Kate. I can't. I pulled so many strings yesterday just to be in on the detail that transferred Castle last night, and that's what gets me in to see him today. Otherwise, even I would have no idea where he is being held."

Defeated, knowing that she isn't going to get anywhere with this, Kate finally acquiesces.

"At least tell him everything, Jordan – everything I have told you."

"I will, Kate. I will."

"You don't believe he is guilty, do you Jordan?" Kate asks, almost as an afterthought. Despite the text that her friend had sent her last night, her words this morning belie the previous night's text.

"Whether I do or not isn't important," Jordan says quickly, making up her mind to at least give her friend this much. "What _is_ important is that for some reason, it is important to Castle that we think he is."

"What do you mean?" Kate asks, both confused and curious by the statement, by the apparent leap in logic her friend takes.

"Think about it," Jordan tells her. "If Castle did this, then he is guilty. A normal person isn't going to give up their guilt so easily. It's just self-preservation. But if Castle didn't do this, if he is innocent, then he should be proclaiming that innocence loudly. But he isn't doing that."

"I know, but –"

"Kate, you're missing the point," Jordan interrupts. "Castle isn't proclaiming his innocence . . . but neither is he admitting guilt."

For the first time, Kate sees and recognizes the distinction. And with that distinction, comes hope.

"Castle hasn't screamed his innocence," Jordan re-states, "but he isn't admitting to anything either. Instead, he seems content . . . no, that's the wrong word . . . he seems_ intent_ on ensuring that we think he is guilty, or at least wonder about it."

Kate nods her head in agreement.

"But why?" Kate asks aloud, still frustrated. "Why make us wonder? Wouldn't he want us firmly in his corner, instead of wondering like this?"

"Whatever the reason," Jordan tells her, "it probably has something to do with your letter, and your package."

The two women are quiet for a moment, before Jordan begins to sign off the call.

"I need to run," she tells Kate. "Is there anything in particular you want me to say to Castle?"

"You're sure I can't convince you to –"

"I wish I could, Kate. And if I could, I would," Jordan interrupts. She expects no less of the detective than to try again to get in to see her partner. Her ex-partner. Whatever they are these days.

Kate is quiet for another few heartbeats, before finally speaking again.

"Ask him what he needs of me," she finally says. "Tell him I will do anything. _Any_thing."

"I will," Jordan replies, and clicks off, leaving Kate alone with her thoughts once more. She is still stuck on one thing, besides the opened box that sits in one hand and the letter in the other. Her off-the-cuff remark to her visitor this morning and the response it generated.

_He's not 'my' Castle . . ._

It had provoked a truly emotional response from her visitor, who, up until that point, had been decidedly cordial. Up to that point, her visitor had been as cool and detached as anyone she has ever seen. Without knowing it, her words had touched a chord with the assassin in her home. But unbeknownst to the assassin, the assassin's reaction has opened up questions for Kate.

_I question your worthiness to receive this gift._

That's what her visitor had said.

Now, if her visitor were just a runner, simply a messenger – albeit a dangerous one, for certain – if she were simply someone delivering a message to Richard Castle, through Kate, then why would Kate's slip up matter. It seems that Kate's view of Castle, her feelings about him were important to the messenger. Why?

It tells Kate that the messenger had a duality about her. One that Kate has yet to figure out. But she will.

_**At the Federal Holding Tank somewhere in New York City, 9:40 a.m., Friday March 16, 2012**_

Jordan sits at the table, lost in her thoughts when the door to the visiting room opens, and a very tired-looking Richard Castle shuffles in. He wears an orange jumpsuit, provided by the Feds, along with the handcuffs and foot restraints that are now a part of his apparel. The fire that was in his eyes remains strong, and her heart goes out to her friend, knowing the brave front he forces himself to hold in place.

He walks slowly to the other side of the table, and sits down opposite his guest. He lifts his hands toward the guard who has accompanied him, but he is disappointed.

"Not a chance, buddy," the guard tells him. "Enjoy your visit. You have ten minutes."

The door slams shut, leaving Castle and Jordan alone. She has no illusions, and has already found the video camera and microphone bug in the room. 'Alone' is definitely a misnomer in this case.

"How are you?" she asks him.

"Peachy," he smiles weakly, "Although the breakfast buffet left a lot to be desired."

She chuckles, once again admiring her friend's spunk and determination – and his motive.

"How's your new home?"

"A bed, a sink and a toilet. All the necessities are taken care of," he continues to smile. Another blanket would have been nice, but he's not going to complain. Not when he knows there are ears everywhere.

"I spoke with the detective this morning," Jordan begins, getting right to it. She doesn't want to use names. She knows whomever is listening will figure it out soon enough but she doesn't want to make anything easy for them at this point.

"Do tell," Castle says, feigning disinterest. Or is he feigning at all . . .

"She had a visitor this morning," Jordan continues. She has had to leave her phone behind, had to leave everything not a part of her clothing in the other room. So she has to do this by memory. Fortunately, she has a good one.

"A contractor visited her." Immediately Jordan sees the reaction, the fear in Richard Castle's eyes. He's a writer. He knows what a contractor is. He knows what this means. His first thought it that all of this has been for naught. That their enemy has decided to move forward, despite all that he has done.

"She is fine," Jordan says softly, and she sees the relief in his eyes.

"But a message was delivered. A box." She sees his eyebrows raise and his fingers wiggle in the shackles.

"The box contained almost a dozen of those" she says, glancing down at his wiggling fingers. Anyone listening might think she is talking about donuts. Castle, however, knows exactly what she refers to.

"And a letter," she adds. "The letter was addressed to 'Detective'. Apologized for breaking the agreement, asked for forgiveness, said that the agreement was back in place."

Castle sits back in his chair, taking his arms and hands off the table, now resting them in his lap, as he stares at the woman in front of him. He takes a long, deep breath.

"And the letter asked her to get a message to you. A request to cancel your contractor."

Seconds pass before Castle nods his head, imperceptibly. Jordan smiles, knowing that her message has been received and understood. What this means for Castle, she is unsure of. But she senses that this is good news, even if he will not show it. She is about to leave, when she suddenly remembers her friend's final request this morning.

"She also has a request of you," Jordan tells him, standing up. He stands with her.

"What would that be?" he asks, and she cannot tell if he is being sarcastic or genuine. No matter, she has one final message to deliver.

"She asks what she can do for you. She said to tell you she will do anything. She stressed that word. Said it twice."

Castle considers this, and for a brief instant, Jordan sees the strength, the façade he has painted fall away, she sees the genuine emotion that he fights to hide. Seconds later, the veil returns, and he nods his head.

"She was quite genuine, Castle," she adds softly. That makes up his mind for him. They are estranged – in more ways than one. There are huge trust issues between them now. But there are also bigger fish in the ocean, monstrous fish that threaten to devour them both. And there is one concern that he has, that has – despite his best efforts – haunted him during these first two days of incarceration.

"Alexis," he simply says, his eyes almost pleading with hers.

"I will tell her, Rick," Jordan tells him. "And I will look in on her as well."

He nods, and almost smiles. "Thank you," is all he says, and then he moves toward the opposite wall, rapping on the door.

"Guard!" he yells out. "I'm ready."

He turns back, smiling at Jordan, and mouths the words again.

_Thank you._

Minutes later, he is back in his cell, lying down on his cot, his eyes closed. He wills his mind to his booth at the Old Haunt, and tries to see his friends in the booth with him, tries to hear their laughter rising to the ceiling, tries to taste the drinks served there. He is unsuccessful, and with that failure, for the first time feels the fear, the tightness of the small cell as it begins to squeeze him.

He wipes a rapidly forming bead of perspiration away from his brow, sits up quickly, then stands and walks to the sink in his cell. He splashes cold water across his face, and then returns to his cot, and lies back, ready to try to escape within his mind one more time.

"It doesn't work if you don't completely relax," the voice tells him. He bolts up, and stares at the guard who stands at the cell bars. He does not know the man.

"Who are you?" Castle asks, placing his mask back in place.

"My name is Anakin," the guard smiles affably. Castle tries hard to stifle a laugh, understanding the veiled greeting. "Your visitor had some interesting things to say," the guard says softly, pulling out a small bug from his pocket, which brings another smile to Castle's face.

"That she did," Castle says. "So what's next? Arraignment, I assume?"

"Yes – scheduled for Monday as I understand it. Usually this is a 48-hour thing, but with the weekend and all . . ."

The guard's voice trails off, knowing that he has just told the captive that he is in this spot for at least the weekend.

"Bail?"

"We'll see, but not likely," the guard says, and Castle only nods his head in understanding. "But there are other ways to freedom."

"I was under the impression that that was not an option," Castle argues, softly.

"_Other ways_, young Jedi," the guard smiles. "Other ways."

Castle has no idea what these 'other ways' might be. Clearly, a break-out is not an option. They had agreed upon that earlier. What his 'guard' may be referencing is lost on the writer – at least for now.

"Your mother and daughter are being watched . . . protected," the guard finally says, as he walks away from the cell.

"Interesting face," Castle says to the retreating figure.

"One of many," he tells his son. "One of many."


	12. Chapter 12

**The Long Game: Chapter 12**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**The Federal Courthouse in New York City, 10:15 a.m., Monday, March 19, 2012**_

Richard Castle sits in the small courtroom – which is currently closed to the public – with Harvey Bennington, his long-time attorney, District Attorney Stanley Bridges, and Judge Barbara Smalling. Over the weekend, Judge Smalling had issued the order for the closed arraignment proceedings, as she was having no part of the inside-the-walls media circus that was brewing over the famous novelist.

The media was already having a field day, having gone into full frenzy mode with the gruesome details regarding Scott Dunn's corpse. The stories ranged from a decapitated head being the only body part yet recovered, to speculation about missing limbs. Ironically, no story – at least to date – has accurately portrayed the fingerless body that had washed ashore.

For her part, Judge Smalling had stared outside her chamber window at the throng of media vans and equipment being mounted on the court steps with increasing disgust.

"_Not even one of these knuckleheads has gotten it right yet,"_ she had thought to herself.

Now, sitting in the closed courtroom with the antagonist of these proceedings, she finds herself wondering not so much about his innocence or guilt, but rather his intentions. She knows the story about Scott Dunn and what he had done to this man's daughter, and mother, and friends. She knows how she would . . . could react if something like this would happen to any of her daughters – of which she has two, Sarah and Sydney.

No, what has struck her about Richard Castle was the conversation between the writer and his attorney that has just taken place. Castle had originally talked about pleading no contest. Harvey, of course, had tried to talk him out of this.

"_You realize that a no contest essentially allows me to treat you, to pass judgement and sentencing as if you had entered a guilty plea, Mr. Castle,"_ she had told him then, and both Harvey and Stanley had immediately concurred.

"_No contest simply protects you from a civil suit later on, Rick,"_ Harvey had told him. _"You know this! You're innocent. Why are you screwing around with a no contest plea?"_ he had asked incredulously.

"_Is this one of your publicity stunts to drive up book sales, Mr. Castle?"_ she had asked him. _"Enter in a no contest plea, spend some time in jail before you appeal while watching your sales skyrocket?"_

It's all she could think of as a rationale for the man's behavior. He's not guilty. Scratch that. He is guilty of something, of that she is confident. But not murder. She's looked in his eyes. She's watched his body language. She's spent twenty years on the bench and has a good feel for this. The man isn't guilty of murder, but for some reason, it appears he seems to want people to believe he is. And if it is not for book sales, then why? He's got a teenage daughter ready to graduate high school who, according to hastily-gathered evidence, is seeing a shrink as a result of her traumatic experience. He's got a mother who is barely in better shape. There is no father in the picture. And he's ready to leave them and spend time in prison? The thing his daughter needs right now more than anything is her father. Why is he willing to leave her, to essentially toss her aside?

No, this smells to high heaven, and she idly wonders who he is protecting? Or, who is he hiding from?

"Things are not always as they appear to be, your honor," he tells her. "I can't say more."

"Can't ? Or won't, Mr. Castle," she asks him.

"Tomato, To-mah-to," he smiles.

Immediately he recognizes that this wasn't the best time for his playful sarcasm to return. Judge Smalling gives him a glare over her eyeglasses that causes him to sheepishly retreat, momentarily.

Regardless, it seems that his attorney and the DA have finally talked a bit of sense into the writer, who just moments ago, has agreed to enter a 'not guilty' plea. Now it's all about the bail. He wants his moment – fine, she will give it to him.

"Mr. Castle," she begins, "Given the severity of the crime, and the gruesome nature of violence that has taken place, and finally given your initial reluctance to enter a non-guilty plea, I have to consider the very real possibility that you are, indeed, guilty. As such, I must consider you a flight risk. Therefore, I am withholding bail."

While Harvey Bennington issues the expected protest and rebuttal, Castle simply nods his head. He's been expecting this, as Jackson Hunt (in his role as federal guard) had reminded him. His reaction further surprises and concerns Judge Smalling, as do his words to his attorney.

"It's okay, Harvey," Castle tells his old friend. "I expected this."

"Richard, this is insane," his attorney tells him, now frustrated to no end. "You are playing a dangerous game, here."

"I know, Harvey," Castle says, before quickly glancing at the judge, but it is too late. His little slip up confirms for Barbara Smalling that something is going on beneath the surface here, and she instinctively knows that this has the possibility of truly ending badly.

"You may think this is a game, Mr. Castle," she instructs him as he stands to leave, "but I assure you it is not."

Castle merely nods as he holds his hands out to the two federal guards who have accompanied him to the proceedings.

"Time to go, boys," he says softly. The arraignment has gone exactly as he and Jackson Hunt had anticipated. Now comes the hard part. Now comes the endless waiting, the hours leading to days, leading to weeks and beyond in a jail cell. Or worse.

"I can do this," he tells himself, but truthfully, he is starting to wonder. He's a writer, for crying out loud, not some superspy with years of undercover training. He's never gone through POW training. He's not ex-special forces like Esposito. He's definitely out of his league. Yet his father has told him that he won't be spending as much time in jail as he anticipates. So far he's been right about everything, so Castle can do nothing but trust the man yet again.

"Let's go, Mr. Castle," one of the guards tells him as Castle and Harvey Bennington leave the judge's chambers for the short journey back to the federal building where his holding tank waits for him.

_**Richard Castle's Beach Home in the Hamptons, 10:42 a.m., Monday, March 19, 2012**_

Jackson Hunt stands in the kitchen drinking a glass of orange juice. He arrived roughly an hour ago, in one of his standard disguises that he keeps on tap. Some days he is an electrician, other days a home theatre installation specialist. Today he is a plumber, and his van is a brightly designed vehicle with a personalized logo. He has real businesses that he has established for situations like this – where he needs to be both visible and covert at the same time. If anyone recalls seeing his van and does a check, they will find a real business, with a real website, and a real phone number. Anyone calling the number on the van will get an answering service, which forwards their business request to a local business operative.

Martha and Alexis sit in the living room, their attention focused on the television, where the CNN coverage of "The Arraignment of Richard Castle" is playing like a soap opera. True to Judge Smalling's concern, the media feast has begun. Hunt walks back into the living room now, sipping on his orange juice. He has told them what is next – he needed to be there in person for this, to assure them that everything will be all right.

The CNN feed from the courthouse continues, as they wait for Castle and his attorney to leave the courthouse. The media hoards don't expect more than a few words from Harvey Bennington, but everyone is looking for video shots and photographs of the disgraced author. Once the arraignment ends, the sound bites will begin ad nauseam.

Suddenly the lights are on, and there is shouting along with a bustle of movement on the screen. Sure enough, Richard castle is exiting the courthouse, walking in cuffs. Within seconds he will be at the paddy wagon, headed back to his holding cell. Martha breaks into tears at the sight of her son in handcuffs. Alexis, however, doesn't say a word. She simply stares at the man who she knows is making this sacrifice for her. Jackson Hunt glances down at the young girl's tensed hands, watching her nails bite into her palms. He places a calloused hand atop hers. She glances down, then offers quick glance at her grandfather before returning her gaze to the television screen.

_**The 12th Precinct, New York City, 10:42 a.m., Monday, March 19, 2012**_

It's standing room only for the detectives and on-duty officers of the 12th Precinct here in the break room. They are all huddled around the large 46-inch flat screen that – ironically – had been donated last year by the man they now watch exit the courtroom.

While no one dares risk a glance at Detective Kate Beckett, she still feels their eyes boring into her, all wondering what she must be thinking. Her thoughts, however, are her own right now, as she hasn't spoken a word since they have all wandered into the room. She stares down at the cup of coffee in her hand, it too a product of the large industrial strength coffee maker donated by – yeah, him.

Even Esposito and Ryan are giving her a wide arc this morning, as is Captain Victoria Gates. Instinctively they all recognize this as one of those truly rare life moments where the best words are those not spoken.

"There's our boy," Esposito says softly, as they watch the novelist exit the large door and begin the walk along the stone and marble to the steps leading down to the street.

_**The Federal Courthouse in New York City, 10:44 a.m., Monday, March 19, 2012**_

Richard Castle walks slowly, his legs in shackles and his arms in handcuffs. He wonders, idly, why the heavy armory restricting him. Yes, he is a suspected murderer, but . . . what . . . do they think he's an Olympic sprinter, or a closet martial artist? What do they think he is going to do?

He hears Harvey speaking in his ear as they approach the media frenzy waiting at the steps, but he is not listening. His mind is galaxies away, waiting for the next shoe to fall. He wonders – again – if he can go through with this, but realizes that the time to bail out of this plan passed long ago. He's in this for the long game, now.

Harvey is speaking to the media, as the two guards slowly walk Castle past the throng of reporters. Video cameras are capturing his every step, and flashbulbs pop capturing each facial expression. Steeling himself, he takes the first step off the marble surface onto the steps leading to the street when the first shot rings out. It catches Richard Castle just below the clavicle as he steps down to the first step. Had the shot come a second earlier, it would have gone through his heart. As it is, it is a clean through and through just inches above his heart as he falls backward toward the stone surface below.

For Elena Markov, it was a fantastic shot from roughly 750 feet, high above from the garage across the street. A second shot rings out, some twenty feet from the now profusely bleeding and prostrate novelist who is laid out on the steps. Pure pandemonium has set in, with media personnel both diving for cover while instructing colleagues to continuing filming, continue taking pictures.

_**Richard Castle's Beach Home in the Hamptons, 10:45 a.m., Monday, March 19, 2012**_

"He's fine, Martha, he is fine," Jackson Hunt says, his voice rising to overcome the screams of the red-headed woman, her face in her hands as she sits on the sofa in front of the television. Alexis is eerily quiet, wiping the rush of tears from her eyes, but never tearing her eyes away from the screen that – right now – is focused on the body of her father laid out on the steps of the courthouse.

"Martha, I told you, Elena is one of the best shooters in the world," Hunt tells Martha – and by extension – the younger version of the woman he has once loved. "Richard will be fine, I promise you."

He glances again at his granddaughter, still focused on the television.

"So much blood," Alexis says softly. "So much blood."

_**The 12th Precinct, New York City, 10:45 a.m., Monday, March 19, 2012**_

It's one of those moments that – later – will become one of those 'where were you when it happened' events. But right now, the 12th Precinct has descended into hell, as chaos has erupted. The scream that gurgled out of Kate Beckett's mouth is one that Javier Esposito will never forget, as his friend and mentor has dropped to her knees in the break room. Kevin Ryan has fallen back into the wall, while a couple of officers have broken into tears.

No, Richard Castle is not a cop, but for many in this room, he is one of them.

No, they haven't really treated him like one of them all of the time, but today at this moment, he is a fallen comrade.

Captain Victoria Gates was the first to rush out of the room, sprinting to her office and jumping on the telephone. Other than that, no one has left the break room, and Javier Esposito now finds himself on his knees, trying to pick up his friend, trying to get Kate Beckett to her feet. He knows the horror that is flashing behind those eyes that alternate between he and the television monitor. Those eyes stare blankly at him – and in those eyes he sees her mother, he sees Roy Montgomery. He glances back at the television monitor, and can't help but notice the large and growing blotch of blood sprayed across the chest of Richard Castle.

_**Back in the city near the Courthouse, 10:55 a.m., Monday, March 19, 2012**_

Elena Markov is down the steps within two minutes to the service elevator, which opens up in the garage on the first floor. She hops in the small rented car, wearing her blond wig and green eye lenses. She will make sure that she glances toward the camera she knows is at the exit – unintentionally of course. She pays for her parking ticket at the automated machine and smiles, as the gate arm lifts, granting her access to leave.

Ten blocks away, she enters a second garage and discards the car, now taking off her wig and ditching the lenses once inside the building. She waits five more minutes, and then departs out the front door, placing her call to Jackson Hunt.

"I see you were successful," Hunt greets her, nodding his head to Alexis as he stands up from the sofa and walks toward the kitchen.

"He will be in pain for a few weeks, but he will heal," Elena tells him.

"The pain will do him good," Hunt says aloud, more to himself than to his partner. "It will help crystalize his thinking."

"An interesting viewpoint," she muses, "considering he is your son."

"It is because he is my son that I wish him to grow, and grow quickly," he tells her. "He will come to realize this phase was necessary."

"Is this not unreasonable?" she asks.

"These are unreasonable times," is all he says. It is this cold detachment that Elena Markov both loves and respects about the man.

"And now suspicion will slowly begin to depart from your son," she adds, glancing at the young couple that passes by her as she walks along the street. "Deflecting attention is always an effective ruse," she smiles.

"According to the news reports right now, they have taken him to New York Presbyterian in Lower Manhattan," Hunt tells her. "He is going into surgery there."

"Good. I will make the second attempt there this evening once he is in recovery. An unsuccessful attempt, of course."

"I know how difficult it is for you to miss, Elena," he says with a smile of pride. Yeah, he trusts this woman with his life – and now the life of his son.

"It is, I admit, a new challenge," she smiles in return. "I had to time it with his first step off the main level outside. I needed it to look like I was going for a clean shot through the heart."

"Why the second shot?" he asks. That was the only surprise of the morning so far.

"Oh, that was just a random shot about twenty feet or so away from Richard. They will now wonder whether or not there was a second shooter."

Jackson Hunt smiles, as the news reporter on site has already speculated that there was a second shooter, since the second shot landed nowhere near the writer or his attorney. Elena always has had a knack for improvising. And she is usually correct in her field decisions.

Two attempts on the life of his son in one day will sway public opinion, forcing the Feds to wonder just who is trying to silence Richard Castle. Phase one was to place suspicion firmly at his son's doorstep. Phase two is to deflect that suspicion away. As he told his son, there is more than one door to get to freedom. Door Two, of course, isn't one that the normal person would willingly choose, but Jackson Hunt knows that his son is anything but normal.

Still, the plan is working, as he knows this latest development will force the authorities to ask the questions he wants asked:

If Richard Castle didn't kill Scott Dunn, did he see who actually did? Is that why he is being targeted?

If Richard Castle being silenced so that what he knows doesn't come to light? Is he being framed and now the frame is going south? Are loose ends being cut off, and is Richard Castle simply one of those loose ends?

Best of all, it will also totally confuse one U.S. Senator, who right about now has to be wondering just what in the world is going on.


	13. Chapter 13

**The Long Game: Chapter 13**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**The Previous Evening in New York City, 9:15 p.m., Sunday, March 18, 2012**_

Senator William Bracken sits on the left side of the long table on the podium with his wife Elizabeth and a few members of his staff. On the opposite side, a number of local city party officials sit, basking in the glory of a successful fund-raising event for the ambitious senator on the other side of the microphone. The Senator has been at his captivating best this evening, having thrown out three or four new soundbites that everyone realized – as they were leaving the Senator's mouth – would be broadcast coast to coast, forget just New York.

The general election is now less than eight months away. Bracken's bid to become the first elected U.S. President without the official support and endorsement from a political party since George Washington is gaining steam – and supporters – by the week. It's a journey he has long ago perfected, and tonight, he has mused about his satisfaction at not having to sit through another long and boring – and manipulative – party nomination and convention process. As an Independent with no strings – at least visible ones – his message to the populace is resonating well. And no, he didn't need any help – financial or otherwise – from either party to get here. Tonight's fund-raiser, in fact, was more for a philanthropic directive of his than his political aspirations.

"Don't consider this a vote or even one penny spent for me and my upcoming fall political aspirations," he had reminded the ballroom audience, to the expected laughter. "I do not want to be beholden to any of you in that regard. That is our agreement. That is our pledge to each other, and to the American people. That is a fundamental problem with our political landscape and I mean to mine that landscape and destroy it," he had finished, to great applause. "But for the children we speak about this evening – for them that I mean to help – for their families in the inner cities of this great state – _that_ is our focus this evening."

It's all hogwash, of course. Tonight's speech, while the literal words spoke about a small segment of the populace, it's tone and overriding sentiment was aimed at the country at large, and rest assured, that little distinction has been lost on absolutely no one here this evening. What – on the surface – sounded like a plea for the helpless in New York, was, in fact, a call to arms against lawlessness and ambivalence in society in general.

Highly ironic, given who was uttering these words, of course.

Now, his mind back in the present, Bracken's left hand finds his wife's hand under the table. She is holding court with Henry Olivetti, his press secretary, who is obviously pleased with the evening's proceedings. Henry is probably the most important person on Bracken's staff, and Elizabeth knows this, so she is giving the young man his moment, gushing lavish praise upon him as the dinner winds down. She gives her husband's hand a squeeze while never altering or stopping her words or praise, never taking her eyes away from Henry. Bracken marvels again at his great fortune of having a gorgeous wife who he genuinely loves, but who is also the head of the snake, as he likes to think of her.

Sheila Elizabeth Bracken is – indeed - a woman to be reckoned with. Tonight, however, she seems singularly focused. He'll have to ask her about that when they return to the penthouse suite at their hotel.

He feels the buzz in his coat pocket, and suddenly remembers the notification that went off in his pocket roughly an hour ago, as he stood up, walking to the podium to begin his speech for the evening. He certainly wasn't going to allow himself to get out of the moment – out of the zone – seconds before the most important speech of his career, to date, to check a phone message. So the buzzing in his pocket had gone ignored, occasionally resurfacing as a reminder that it had yet to be viewed.

Now, as the night is winding down, he feels the buzz again and smiles, knowing that only a few people have this particular number. He releases his hand from Elizabeth's and stands, drawing her attention momentarily.

"Long evening, folks, and there is a restroom calling me," he states to the accompanying laughter. As he moves away from the podium table and toward the restrooms in the back of the ballroom, Walter and Thomas, his two bodyguards, move in unison with him. He smiles to himself, knowing he is probably one of the most protected people on the planet right now, as very few men on earth would knowingly mess with either of the men who make their way toward the back of the room. Both are longtime friends and associates from his days in the U.S. Navy, and both carry about with them that 'don't mess with me' air that cannot be manufactured. Ex-Seals, they took a different path from Bracken. He left the military after only four years. They both stayed until called into a different service with the Senator years ago when he was leaving his post as assistant D.A., with greater aspirations.

Reaching the back restroom, Walter steps in first, and comes out seconds later.

"Clear, sir," he states, and steps aside to allow the Senator to enter. Bracken smiles at the taller man, who despite their decades of friendship, refuses to call him by his first name.

"Thanks, Walter," he says amiably, walking past the bodyguard and allowing the swinging door to shut behind him. He walks to a urinal. It's funny how that works. His reason for coming to the restroom was simply to read his message, but now inside the room, suddenly his biological need has – in fact – kicked in. He smiles at the familiar irony, and half a minute later, flushes the toilet unit and walks to the sink and washes his hands.

He gazes at himself in the mirror for a few seconds until satisfied that he looks the part. That done, he finally reaches into his coat pocket to extract the small burner phone. He punches the device to life, and his face immediately goes ashen white, and his trembling hands inadvertently drop the device into the sink. The subtle noise – just a phone falling into a sink – brings Walter through the restroom doors with a rush, while Thomas continues to stand watch outside with decidedly more authority.

"Are you all right, Senator?" Walter asks him quickly, as he watches the Senator fumble to retrieve his phone from the sink. Not knowing the reason, and just seeing that the Senator has simply dropped his phone, he relaxes again.

"I'm good, Walter," the Senator says quickly, recovering. "Just dropped my phone," he offers with the most sheepish and embarrassed grin he can offer, which is returned by his bodyguard. Seconds later, the ex-Seal is back outside, while the Senator stares back down at the message one more time, wiping away a bead of sweat that has almost miraculously appeared in just seconds.

_New Product Order Received. Cancellation Accepted._

The cryptic message would mean nothing to the casual observer, and might simply raise an eyebrow from your standard businessman or woman.

But for Senator William Bracken, the meaning is frighteningly clear. His assassin – his absolute best and most ruthless assassin – has somehow received a kill order. A kill order that somehow has been issued _by him_. A kill order that, clearly, he has _not_ issued. Right now he doesn't know who the order is for, only that there has been a horrific mistake made. Elena Markov is not released to dispose of inconsequential people. She is his lioness, and she is not called into action for cancellations often. He is very careful in how he uses his most fearsome and formidable weapon. More often than not, he uses her to deliver 'messages.' It is a part of his use of her that she seems to appreciate, for some reason.

So yeah, he is beyond nervous right now, not knowing who has dispatched her using his name, nor who the person is who is about to meet their demise. He stares at the device in his hand, wondering now if someone has hacked his personal device or if someone has virtually hacked his identity. Neither bodes well.

He knows the ground rules for this sort of thing are very clear; once activated, an order is not rescinded. There is far too much at stake for the assassin, the planning that goes into something like this, the risks that these people will take in order to carry out their mission. You don't just arbitrarily send these people into the fray on a whim. You think things through, and make sure – then you make double damn sure – before you issue the order. And once issued, that order isn't revoked. That order stays in effect until the mission is accomplished. And most assassins – his in particular – allow no further communication until said mission is completed.

So he knows, despite the best efforts that he will make, beginning in this very moment as he places a call to his greatest weapon, that she won't answer. She will have already made herself unavailable. Perhaps if he had seen this message earlier, answered it earlier, things would be different. Probably not, but there was still a chance. But not now.

He allows seven rings, before hanging up. With each ring, the pounding in his ears grows louder, stronger. He grabs ahold of the sink with both hands, one hand still holding his phone, staring at the reflection in the mirror.

"Get it together, Will," He tells himself, steeling his eyes against the gaze that looks back at him. Seconds later, he stands upright once again, and dials the number a second time, with the same result. And again, he tries a third time.

No answer. Damn!

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and says a prayer to a God he long ago discarded from his private Catholic school upbringing. Placing the phone back in his coat pocket, he suddenly smiles at the reflection in the mirror, putting on the mask, and heads to the door.

A minute and a half later, his is back at the podium table, looking confident, looking powerful, looking as if tonight has been the biggest success of his life. That is the air he presents to everyone in the room, and everyone buys the image.

All but one.

Elizabeth Bracken knows her husband. First, she knows that his little escape to the restroom was anything but nature's biological call to him. The man's control over his body – in all ways – has been an endless marvel to the woman. So she knows there was another reason for his abrupt departure minutes ago. And the expression of confidence he wears? Well, she knows his masks, and this one she recognizes immediately.

"_Dammit,"_ she thinks to herself, _"what have you done now, Will,"_ as she gives him the look that tells him she is not buying his act. And her look – a disarming smile – is one that gives him a quick shudder.

"Later," he whispers to her with a smile, and knowing that nothing can be done at the moment, Elizabeth Bracken slips back into her role, lavishing one more kudo upon Henry Olivetti, before she knows she and her husband will take their leave for the evening.

_**Still the Previous Evening in a New York City Hotel Penthouse Suite, now 10:22 p.m., March 18, 2012**_

The Senator slips in the card key and unlocks the door, allowing he and his beautiful wife to enter the expansive, plush surroundings. It's his favorite hotel room in the city, and Peter, downstairs, always makes sure that it is available whenever he requests it. The ride in the limousine had been uneventful, as had the walk through the lobby and the elevator ride up to the 48th floor. Elizabeth knows the routine, knows that surveillance is everywhere. Even as they enter the suite, she remains silent, engaging only in chit-chat, as she allows the Senator to walk to the desk, flipping a switch that even Peter and the hotel staff do not realize has been installed. He retrieves a small device, and begins to walk around the room, scanning for bugs. Minutes later in the large bedroom, satisfied that they are truly alone, he nods his head toward his wife.

"We have a problem," he begins.

"I know that much," she offers amiably, for now. "Talk to me."

"I received a text from Elena," he says, and the frown that paints Elizabeth's face is immediate, and almost . . . almost mocking. Elizabeth tolerates Elena Markov. She respects the woman – hell, probably more than anyone on the planet, her husband included. She admits to herself that she admires the woman, greatly. But she also knows that Elena Markov is – in the end - an unrevoked guided missile. Which simply means – in the end – she cannot be fully controlled. She can be unleashed, yeah, but anyone who thinks they really control someone like Elena Markov is fatally fooling their self.

"And?" is all she offers her husband, who has dropped his mask of confidence, and is now simply Will Bracken, the man with great aspirations, great potential, and great flaws that she met in college.

"She is on assignment," he tells her.

"_And?"_ she says again, with a bit more exasperation. Elena on assignment, although not a frequent occurrence, is nothing to be concerned about . . . unless –

"_And_," he repeats, disgustedly, "I didn't release her." He can see the concern that wells up in her eyes, instantly, as she immediately realizes the potential disaster this can become.

"Who did?" she asks, softly.

"I don't know."

"Who's the target?" she asks with a bit more force.

"I don't know."

"Well, shit, Will, what _do_ you know?" she asks, now clearly agitated. Yeah, unleashed and uncontrolled. It is her constant – and only – concern regarding Elena Markov. The sense of dread and foreboding engulfing her now is almost overpowering. This can't end well.

She walks to her the nightstand on the bed, where she has laid her purse, and reaches inside to grab her phone – her other phone. Dialing quickly, she glances at her husband.

"She won't answer, you know," he tells her. "She has turned it off, and won't turn it back on until it's done . . . whatever '_it'_ happens to be."

"Or who," Elizabeth corrects him, as she listens to the ringing in her ear. She allows five rings before handing up and disgustedly throwing the phone on the bed.

"I assume you don't know where she is," Elizabeth asks, her tone softer now.

"I wish I did," he responds, and she simply nods her head. Seconds later, she stands, slipping the gorgeous light green dress off her shoulders, leaving her in a white lace bra and panties. She makes her way around to his side of the bed, where he now sits, still fully dressed except for his jacket and tie. She sits next to him, placing her right hand on his left thigh.

"No matter, Will," she tells him. "There is nothing we can do about it now, then. We just have to see how this plays out."

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, but finally simply nods his head, and she smiles as she can see the familiar fire reigniting behind his eyes.

"There's my Will," she says softly, reaching across his chest to the lamp on the nightstand, and turning the light out.

_**The Next Morning, Still in the NYC Hotel Penthouse Suite, now 10:44 a.m., Monday, March 19, 2012**_

Senator William Bracken and his wife sit upright in the large bed, still reveling in both the nervousness of last night's development as well as their long-standing way of dealing with unexpected stress. He had – now wisely – kept his calendar clear of any meetings for the entire morning, as is his habit for mornings after a fund-raising event. Those events have been known to take on a life of their own, and he has learned – the hard way – not to schedule important meetings on the next morning.

Forty-five minutes ago, he called downstairs for room service, and twenty minutes later, the rolling tray of fruits, eggs and bacon with toast – for him – and a couple of English muffins – for her – had arrived. Now, both of them sit comfortably in the bed, drinking orange juice and cranberry juice. Initially, they were watching a news rehash of his speech last night, and civic leaders have been praising his words and latest initiative. Their smiles at the broadcast, however, had been short-lived, as fifteen minutes ago the local station broke into the coverage with new news.

Richard Castle was being arraigned inside the Federal Courthouse and was expected to be exiting the courthouse any minute now. People are anxious to hear the plea, or hear if any plea bargain has been offered or accepted. Right now, the court of public opinion is – while sympathetic – decidedly against the novelist.

"This is not news," Elizabeth frowns, wanting to see and hear more about the previous evening.

"It is to the people of this city," Bracken admits out loud, and once again considers how badly he has underestimated the writer.

When the first shot rings out, and Richard Castle explodes backwards, a large and widening splotch of red engulfing his upper chest, Elizabeth Bracken cannot hold in the small gasping scream that escapes. Senator William Bracken, however, has one of those life moments that flash before you, as the worst case scenario immediately hits him.

"Dear God, no, no, no!" he whispers, almost too low for his wife to catch it. But catch it she does, and now just as quickly, her mind is melded with his.

In fear.

He thinks about the Stone, and then he turns to look at his wife. He thinks about what he will do to her, to his parents. He thinks about everyone Stone will kill – mercilessly – for such a personal attack on who Bracken now believes to be his son, after a truce had been offered and accepted.

"My God, Will," Elizabeth half shrieks, the implications of the past few seconds fully comprehended.

He reaches across to the nightstand, grabbing the burner phone that he left there last night, and immediately punches in the number.

"Pick up, Dammit, Elena, pick up!" he almost yells into the device. He lets it ring a full ten times this time, before slamming the device across the room.


End file.
